Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.

breaks through the heaviness. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it shifts it—adds another layer to it.

Standing there, watching these strangers—people I had never met—care enough to show up in the middle of the night and paint my mother’s house her favorite color, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Gratitude.

Not the simple kind, but the kind that sits continue reading …