I watched from across the street as Grandpa Jack sat alone at that long table, his helmet resting on his folded hands, waiting. Two hours passed. No one came. The waitstaff tried not to stare, but their eyes said everything: pity.
My grandfather, Jack, deserved so much more. He was the man who taught me how to ride, who picked me up when life knocked me down, and who continued to ride his Harley every day, even at 80. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was genuine. My family disliked that.
