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

full of people. She wanted to be remembered by the men she fed. She wanted her daughter to come home.

She got all twenty-three things on her list.

She just wasn’t here to see it.

But sometimes, on Monday afternoons, when the kitchen is full and the bikers are laughing and the light comes through the window just right, I feel her.

Not in some supernatural continue reading …