At four in the morning, bikers were painting my mother’s house pink, and I didn’t know any of them. I counted nine. I didn’t know a single one.
My mother died on a Tuesday. Pancreatic cancer. She was 67. I flew from Seattle for the funeral and stayed home to take care of the house.
I hadn’t been home in three years. My mother and I weren’t that close anymore. We each had our own reasons. I planned to sign some papers, clear out her apartment, and put it up for sale by Friday.
The house was in worse condition than I’d imagined. The paint was peeling in patches. The gutters were loose. The porch railing was completely rotten. She’d been sick for over a year, and no one could help maintain it.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The first night I fell asleep on her couch, surrounded by boxes. I woke up at 4 a.m. to the sound of something scraping against the outside wall.
I looked out the window and my heart almost stopped.
There were motorcycles parked along the street. At least nine. And men were on ladders. On the porch. Along the side of the house. In the dark. With worklights fixed to easels.
They were painting my mother’s house. Pink.
Not salmon. Not dusty pink. A bright, bold, unmistakable pink.
I grabbed my phone and was about to call 911. Then one of them saw me at the window. A tall, stocky man. Gray beard. A paint roller in his hand.
He didn’t run away. He just nodded and went back to painting.
I went out in my pajamas. Barefoot. Shivering. Not from the cold.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
