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

once.

“Walt?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you like to eat? For Monday.”

He looked at me. His eyes were shining.

“Your mama usually made pot roast.”

“I don’t know how to make pot roast.”

“I’ll teach you. She taught me.”

I laughed. It came out of nowhere. This broken, soggy, ridiculous laugh.

“My mother taught a biker how to make pot roast?”

“Your mother taught us a lot continue reading …