Dear Sir in the cemetery,
I saw you last Sunday.
I was driving home from a church in the northern part of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
You were visiting a different kind of church. Wearing a dark suit, you stood at the foot of what appeared to be a fresh grave in a quiet, sunny cemetery. You looked younger than me, but your face and posture breathed experience.
You were alone.
I admit that my heart suggested I slam on the brakes and approach you. But my mind argued otherwise.