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.

at least.

And the bikers kept working.

They told stories as they painted. Small ones, mostly. Moments that, on their own, might not seem significant, but together painted a picture of who my mother had been to them.

“She never let me skip a session,” one said.

“Told me I was too stubborn for my own good,” another added.

“She made terrible coffee,” someone continue reading …