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

and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Handed it to me.

“She gave us this eight months ago,” he said. “Before she got too sick to talk. Made us promise.”

I unfolded it. My mother’s handwriting. Shaky but clear.

It was a list. Twenty-three things. Numbered. The first one read:

1. Paint the house pink. I always wanted it pink but Ray said it was trashy. Ray’s continue reading …
   

   ADVERTISEMENT

   ← Previous Page Next Page →