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

over when it gets cold. We wrap it around our shoulders on the porch and watch the bikers argue about the right way to trim rosebushes.

Walt makes the pie now. My mother’s recipe. Frozen butter and a tablespoon of vodka. It’s almost as good as hers.

He says mine will be better someday. I’m not sure about that. But I’m learning.

The neighborhood kids steal continue reading …