The day before my wedding, I thought a quiet visit to my late wife’s grave would finally close the last door of my past. Rain drifted through the Seattle cemetery, soft as breath, when a woman stepped out from behind the headstones — watching me, knowing my wife’s name, and carrying a grief that mirrored my own. Her first words made my heart stop.
Rain drew thin lines across the windshield as the cemetery gates opened, iron moaning softly like an old throat clearing. I parked beneath a maple tree whose leaves were just beginning to bronze with the season. The air smelled of wet earth and lilies. I carried a small lantern and a bouquet of white blooms, … Read more
