I was 20 years old when my mother passed away. It was the first real blow that life had dealt me, and I thought I would never recover. Then, by the time the following spring came, the pain was almost bearable and again I could find pleasure in the miraculous reward of nature. At first, I went to the cemetery with trepidation. But then, amazingly, by tending her grave and decorating it with flowers, I was ridding myself of the painful memories. The years passed. I moved from Kaposvar, Hungary, the town where I had been born and had spent my youth. So did my siblings. We only came together on feast days, especially on All Souls' Day in the cemetery. Father lived with me for many years, to a ripe old age. Now that he, too, rests beneath the white marble stone, I go even more eagerly to the cemetery. While I tend my parents' grave site, again I am with them in thought. One day I noticed a modest grave site behind my parents' plot. It lay among the magnificent granite and marble markers of the other graves, its very simplicity _ . Ivy  had covered the site and its only decoration was a simple wooden cross on which was written in copper letters a name, and that she lived 22 years. Whenever I went by, the plot and its surroundings looked cared for and neat, and each time I felt curious about this mysterious woman who had lived all of 22 years. Once I saw an elderly man leaving from there. I concluded that perhaps he had come to visit his wife. In 1996 I was preparing for All Souls' Day in the cemetery when again I caught sight of him, tending the grave. Tall, somewhat bent, he was well passed middle age. We nodded to each other and continued our work. Occasionally I stole a glance at my neighbor. When I noticed that he hadn't got the tools for a proper cleanup, I offered him mine, which he gratefully accepted. After this, it seemed only natural to engage him in conversation. I asked him whose grave it was. This was his answer: "My mother's. She died young, in 1912 when I was only a year-and-a half old. I really never knew her. I made her that cross and the copper letters." Then he went on:"No one comes to visit this grave but me because I was her only child. She died of pneumonia. My father remarried and my stepmother only cared for her own children. So then I always came here to my mother, whether in sadness or in joy. Later, life took me far afield, but I never forgot this grave. For me it was the same as the family home is for others. I always came home here." "With the years passing, it is getting more difficult for me to come, but as long as my legs will carry me, at least twice a year I visit my mother. I'm in my 80s. so who knows how long I can still make it." In stunned silence I listened. Tears clouded my eyes as I realized that I had never seen such boundless love. How much easier is my lot, I thought, for at any moment I can reach into my storehouse of memories and draw out the joyful or sad vignettes  that bind me to my parents with a thousand threads. What memories might this kindly old gentleman harbor? Perhaps a face from an ancient faded photograph of his mother. What a great attachment throughout his long life must have led him back again and again to the resting place of that young woman whose motherly love he could never truly savor , only forever feels its enormous lack. We said good-bye. I was deeply moved because I knew that I had been given a great gift. I had been allowed a glimpse of the royal and long-lasting affection that bound a simple and noble-hearted man to his mother. I decided I would tend the grave together with that of my parents, where, finally, the aged child will have met his youthful mother. The author stole a glance at her neighbor because   _  .
they were living in the same neighborhood the man was tall and straight, well passed middle age she was wondering about the dead young lady's story she knew the dead in the grave was the man's mother