My son, who was nearing the end of his battle, asked the intimidating biker in the hospital waiting area to hold him instead of me. I’m his mom.

When they returned, his face glowed.
“Mama, did you see? I was flying!”

“You were, sweetheart. You really were.”

That was the last time I saw him so full of joy. Four days later, he passed peacefully, at home, with his dog curled beside him.

At the funeral, thirty motorcycles lined the parking lot. Riders came from Mike’s club and others from nearby towns. They didn’t enter the church. They stood outside in quiet formation, heads bowed. When the service ended, they followed the hearse in a solemn procession to the cemetery.

At the graveside, Mike handed me a folded flag.
“This flew on my bike during our last veterans’ ride,” he said. “We want Liam to have it. He was one of us.”Continue reading…