Threadbare tuxedo; long mane of gray hair.
Boxes and magazines stacked, except the immaculate dinning room; table set for eight; a barely recognizable wedding cake centered.
The stranger, quietly asked, What are you doing?
Waiting.
For?
My bride.
How long?
38 years.
Sad news, sir. She’s dead.
Eyes misting, Guess my wait will be longer.
