They led a procession down Highway 49, his repaired Harley carried behind the hearse.
I followed in my car, feeling the weight of everything I never said.
Afterward, one of his friends taught me to ride. She used the plan he had written out for me in an old notebook. Two months later, I got my license.
The club surprised me with a purple bike—his idea, they said.
My favorite color.
Now, I ride every Sunday. I visit the lake. I keep his garage just the way he left it.
And I listen to stories from his friends, to the hum of the road, to the silence where his voice used to be.
I wear a patch now that says “Jack’s Daughter.” I used to think I was too good for that title.
Now, I know I never deserved it.
