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.

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By the time the sun fully rose, the house was nearly done.

The motorcycles were still lined up, now glowing slightly in the early morning light. The group began to pack up, cleaning brushes, sealing paint cans, leaving things better than they found them—aside from the color, of course.

I found the man I had spoken to first.

“Thank you,” I said, and continue reading …