“Just you and me now, old girl,” I murmured, running my hand along the handlebars.
I’d bought this bike after Margaret’s cancer diagnosis. Riding was the only time my mind quieted enough to process what was happening, the only place I could let the tears come without feeling like I was burdening her with my grief. The wind washed it all away, if only for a little while.
I sat on the concrete floor beside the Harley, my back against the workbench, and let the memories flood in.
Tommy Wilkins was the first to come to mind. Skinny kid with a stutter, started riding my bus in 1986. Every morning, he’d linger a few extra seconds to look at my bike parked in the school lot.
“Y-you ever g-going to let me s-sit on it, Mr. Ray?” he’d ask.
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