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

way. In the way the spices are arranged. In the way the chair at the head of the table stays empty because nobody will sit there. In the way Walt says “your mama” instead of “your mother” because that’s what she was.

She’s in every corner of this pink house. In every meal I cook. In every Monday that comes and goes.

She’s here.

And so am I.

Finally.