For three years, I never missed a Sunday.
Neither did the stranger.
He always arrived before me.
He never stood directly in front of my husband’s headstone.
Instead, he stopped a few feet away, removed his baseball cap, placed a single white carnation beside the grave, and quietly walked away before I reached the hill.
At first I assumed he had the wrong grave.
Then I assumed he had known my husband from work.
Months passed.