47 bikers showed up to walk my 5 year old son into kindergarten because his father was killed riding his motorcycle to work.
They came at 7 AM sharp, leather vests gleaming in the morning sun, surrounding our small house like guardian angels with tattoos and gray beards.
My son Tommy had been refusing to go to school for three weeks, terrified that if he left the house, I might disappear too like Daddy did. Every morning ended in tears and begging, his small hands clutching my legs, promising to be good if I just let him stay home forever.
But this morning was different. The rumble of motorcycles made him run to the window, his eyes wide as bike after bike pulled into our street.