Bikers Were Painting My Dead Mother’s House Pink At 4AM And I Didn’t Know Any Of Them

it.”

The pink house sat in front of me. My mother’s house. My house now.

I thought about Seattle. My apartment. My job. My busy, carefully constructed life 2,000 miles from everything I’d run from.

Then I thought about Monday. About lunch at this table. About nine bikers who showed up every week for eleven years because a woman gave a stranger lemonade continue reading …