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

my mother’s house. Pink.

Not salmon. Not blush. Bright, deliberate, unmistakable pink.

I grabbed my phone and almost called 911. Then one of them saw me in the window. Big guy. Gray beard. Paint roller in his hand.

He didn’t run. He just nodded at me and went back to painting.

I went outside in my pajamas. Barefoot. Shaking. Not from the cold.

“What are continue reading …