A Quiet Service Interrupted by Thunder
That morning, we were barely holding ourselves together. My mom clutched a tissue like it was the only thing keeping her upright, while my brother-in-law looked hollow, as though he hadn’t slept in days.
The service was small, gentle, exactly what Kendra would’ve wanted. Flowers, soft music, silence.
Then came the sound.
At first, it seemed like distant thunder. But it grew louder, deeper, until the walls seemed to shake. We turned toward the church entrance.
Seventy-five motorcycles rolled in, one after another, their chrome gleaming, their engines growling. Men and women of every age dismounted, their leather jackets marked with patches from clubs across the state. They didn’t stumble or shuffle in—they moved with a strange, disciplined grace, like soldiers answering a call.
And we all asked the same question silently: Why were they here?
