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.

this was technically vandalism—albeit very well-intentioned vandalism.

Instead, I picked up a brush.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the simplest way to feel connected—to her, to them, to the moment.

No one made a big deal out of it. They just made space.

And for a while, we worked together in silence.

—

### The Meaning of Showing continue reading …