I used to resent my father because he worked with his hands.

The last time I saw him alive was at my college graduation. My friends’ families showed up in suits and designer dresses. Frank showed up in his best jeans and a button-down shirt that didn’t hide the tattoos on his arms. When he reached out for a hug after the ceremony, I pulled back and offered a firm handshake instead. The look on his face—the pain in his eyes—still haunts me. Three weeks later, I got a call. A lumber truck lost control on a wet mountain road. They said Frank was dead instantly—his bike went under the wheels. I remember putting the phone down and feeling… numb. Like there was a hole inside me where the grief should be.I flew home for the funeral, expecting a quiet ceremony. Maybe a few old friends from the local bar. What I didn’t expect was the church parking lot filled with hundreds of motorcycles. Riders from six different states showed up. They stood shoulder to shoulder, leather vests marked with a single orange ribbon.
“That was your father’s color,” an old woman said when she caught me looking. “Frank always wore an orange bandana. She said it made it easy for God to spot him on the road.” I didn’t know that. It turned out there was a lot I didn’t know.
Inside, one by one, the drivers got up to talk. They didn’t call him Frank. They called him ‘Brother Frank.’”