His wife died. It was sudden. One day life was good; the next day he was picking out urns.
They say he gave up living, which is probably why he lost his job, fell behind on rent, and missed his electric bill. They repossessed his storage unit. He got evicted. It was one thing after another.
He was broke—without a pot to you-know-what in. All he had left were two kids, and an urn.
And one Datsun truck covered in rust.
He didn’t like himself. Homelessness will do that to a man. He decided to leave town. He would stay with his uncle in Atlanta to get on his feet again.
The first night on the road was spent at a rundown motel. The next night was spent in the bed of his truck with his kids. He was running out of money fast.
He held the urn while he drove. His kids slept in the seat beside him. And he thought about her. He talked to
He spoke in a whisper, careful not to wake his kids. While talking to her, he noticed his gas tank was on “E.”
He pulled off the highway. He had a few dollars left to his name. On the way to the filling station, something caught his eye.
It was an ancient cemetery, just down a dirt road—the kind with iron fencing, crooked headstones, and live oaks.
He turned into the graveyard. He explored the headstones in the glow of his headlights. He didn’t know why he was there.
And that’s when he saw it.
It was a headstone with his wife’s name on it. Her first and last name. He almost choked. He bent low and inspected it. The dates were different, but it was her name, along with four engraved words:
“‘Til we meet again.”