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.

of bikers who showed up at 4 a.m. to paint a house pink—not because they had to, but because they cared.

And in doing so, they gave me something I didn’t know I needed:

A reminder that the people we love don’t just live in our memories.

They live in the lives they touched.