The call came at 8 AM. Mykel, gone. 24 years old. My step-grandson.

Shock hit first, a cold wave washing over me. 

Then, a strange calm. Surreal. I made coffee. Checked my phone. Surely, this was a mistake. 

Outside, the world dared to be beautiful. Birds sang their ignorant joy. The sun rose, indifferent to our darkness.

Denial – a gossamer shield against reality’s cruel blade.

It shattered.

The truth crashed over me, a tidal wave of anguish. My legs moved of their own accord, desperate to outrun the pain. 

I lurched towards the door, seeking escape, as if grief could be left behind in this room.

But halfway down the hallway, my body betrayed me.

My knees buckled, no longer able to bear the weight of this new reality.

I dropped to all fours, the cold floor pressing against my palms, anchoring me to this moment I couldn’t flee.

There, on hands and knees, my back curved into a protective arc.

My body folded in on itself, instinctively trying to shield my breaking heart from the cruel truth.

A scream ripped from my chest, primal and raw. It scared me.

How long had it been building? It was as if I choked out a ball of darkness, years of hollowness condensed into a single moment.

Then, silence. The kind that rings in your ears, that makes you aware of your own heartbeat.

I raised myself up. Throat raw, as if I’d swallowed shards of my broken heart.

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My husband – Mykel’s grandfather – moved like a man submerged. Slow. Deliberate. The air around him thick as molasses, grief’s invisible weight.

Amidst our grief, we decided on a ritual: we would get soul cakes. An old tradition for remembering the dead.

We rode to the store in silence. The world still too bright, too normal.

We gathered a few dozen of pies.

The motorcycle club assembled. Our second family. “Remember Mykel,” we said passing the pie and a candle. 

My husband opened his mouth, closed it. Swallowed hard. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken sorrow.

Finally, his voice came, a broken whisper that somehow carried to every ear.

“Mykel,” he finished, the name a prayer and a curse.

“Remember Mykel,” the group echoed back with a shared pain and love.

Then, as one, we moved. Leather creaked as we mounted our bikes. Engines sputtered to life, a rising growl of metal and mourning.

The road called, as it always had. But today, it wasn’t freedom we chased. It was remembrance.

I imagined Mykel’s spirit riding with us, finally free from the shadows that had claimed him.

We lit up the day for him. Headlights blazing, cutting through our grief. We rode hard. We mourned louder than our pipes could scream.

Never suffer in silence. Speak out, reach out, ride out if you can.

For Mykel, and for all those who struggle alone, we ride on.