Kneeling before the gravestone, the man spoke to the deceased as if she could hear his every word. In the past two months he had garnered the faith that she could, in fact, do just that.

“I love you, Baby. It seems strange looking back on things and realizing I lived life without faith. Now, I talk to God every night as I watch the sunset. I’m convinced he hears me. I come here to talk to you, but I think this is where I need to be when we have our talk.”

He stood and traced his finger over the words that were etched into the stone, taking time to feel the grain in the void of each letter.

He reached into the left pocket of his tattered jeans and cupped a velvet box in his hand. As his fingers traced the last letter, he stepped away from the headstone and smiled.

“Know that I love you, Baby.” He leaned forward, kissed the top of the stone, and then stood. “Know that I’ll always love you.”

After turning away, he sauntered to his motorcycle, glancing over his shoulder twice before he reached the motorbike. After fastening the strap of his helmet, he straddled the seat.

The motorcycle pulled away from the gravesite. Filled with love, and with promise, the rider maneuvered through the winding roads with expertise. His destination, on that morning, was a pie shop located two hours north of the gravesite.

A reminiscence. One he believed would satisfy his soul.

His thoughts, at that moment, were not of earthly possessions or happenings. His focus was on the heavens above, and of his love, who had joined the departed mere months prior.

Three miles east, a man stumbled to his truck. Stained with the sour smell of the previous night’s sins, he entered the vehicle, dropped his keys, and swore the Lord’s name in vain when he couldn’t find them. A moment later, his hand passed over the fob.

He grinned a drunken smile.

The motorcycle, traveling perpendicular to the truck, gained speed. At slightly under the speed limit, his destination was two hours ahead. Cherishing each passing mile, he subconsciously whistled a tune while he sang the words in his head, recalling the day he kissed the departed for the first time.

A smile formed on his face.

Fumbling for his cigarette lighter, the truck driver moved his eyes away from the road, but only for an instant. In that instant, he traveled through an intersection clearly marked with a red traffic light.

The truck entered the intersection at a blinding rate of speed. Despite the experience of the rider, nothing could be done to avert the collision. The front tire of the motorcycle hit the left front fender of the truck.

The rider was cast from the motorbike, over the hood of the truck, and into the path of a speeding car.

The truck came crashing to a stop against an adjacent light pole. The driver was ejected through the windshield, and onto the truck’s hood.

Passersby stopped and rendered aid. The driver of the truck was deceased the moment his vehicle came to an abrupt stop. The rider of the motorcycle lay in the street, hanging onto a sliver of life and a ray of hope.

In moments, the siren of a distant ambulance could be heard. Generous mortals who assisted the rider peered in the distance and gave their assurances.

“Help,” they said. “Is on the way. Hold on.”

The attendants cut off the rider’s clothes, braced his neck, and placed him on a flat polypropylene board. One searched his clothes for identification. In the left pocket of the blood-stained jeans, the attendant found a velvet box. In it, an engagement ring.

The rider, clinging to life by a thread, lifted his bloody hand. “The ring,” he muttered through dry lips. “I need the ring.”

Knowing not what to do, the attendant placed the ring in the rider’s hand, hoping it could provide the strength he needed to survive. At that instant, he made note of the inscription of the rider’s brass bracelet.

“You can make it,” the attendant said to himself. “All you must do is believe.”

He then slid the rider into the ambulance and closed the door.

As the paramedics worked frantically to save the rider’s life, the ambulance sped toward the hospital. Moments later, the ambulance came to a stop at the emergency room entrance. The attendant opened the ambulance’s rear door. The two paramedics met the attendant’s gaze and shook their heads in unison.

“We lost him,” one said. “It seemed he just let go.”

The attendant opened the rider’s clenched hand. Much to his surprise, the ring was gone.

“Where’s the ring?” he asked.

The paramedic shrugged. “What ring?”

The attendant looked at the rider’s right wrist, only to find it bare. “The bracelet?” he asked.

The paramedic seemed puzzled. “It was there a moment ago, I swear.”

The body of the rider was taken away. The ambulance was searched. Neither the bracelet, nor the ring were ever found.

It is believed by many that upon their passing, the departed are delivered to their destination. At the rate of three hundred per hour, souls exit their earthly bodies. Some move on to the heavens above, while others meet an entirely different fate.

On that day, at 9:17, an angel was delivered to the heaven’s above. On his right wrist he wore a brass bracelet. Cupped in his right hand, a velvet box bore a symbol of his love.

Waiting cross-legged at the golden gates, holding a piece of pecan pie, was the woman he so dearly loved.

Beyond the gates, beautiful trees lined the horizon. On them, low-hanging fruit clung to the branches, an offering from the heavens. Each piece of fruit gave assurance of one more tomorrow.

And the trees went on forever.