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

First real smile I’d seen from him.

“Yes ma’am. It is.”

I didn’t have pot roast or meatloaf. I had nothing in the house except what I’d brought from the airport. But I found my mother’s kitchen still stocked. Canned goods. Rice. Spices she’d organized with labels in her careful handwriting.

Cumin. Paprika. Garlic powder. Each label dated. Each jar full.continue reading …