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

notes that said “Buy something your parents won’t.”

How she’d sat on this porch every Monday afternoon while they worked, reading a book and looking up occasionally to say “You missed a spot” or “That’s crooked” or “I could do better and I’m sixty-four with a bad hip.”

They were laughing. These big, rough, leather-wearing men were laughing at my dead continue reading …