Danny and I had our first dance right there, in that hospital room, while Dad watched from his bed. We danced to “My Little Girl” by Tim McGraw, and there wasn’t a dry eye in that room.
But the moment that destroyed me completely was when the song ended and Dad spoke up, his voice barely a whisper.
I walked to his bedside. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a small wrapped box.
“I was gonna give you this before you walked down the aisle. Figured now’s as good a time as any.”
My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a silver bracelet with tiny motorcycle charms—one for every bike we’d ever ridden together. Twelve motorcycles, twelve memories.
But there was a thirteenth charm. A tiny angel with wings.
“That last one,” Dad said, “is for all the rides we won’t get to take. I’ll be riding with you anyway, baby girl. Always.”
I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe. I just held that bracelet and cried while my father, my hero, my best friend, held my hand with what little strength he had left.
“I love you, Hawk,” I finally managed to say, using his road name like I had since I was a kid.
“I love you more, Little Wing,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given me when I was eight and fearless and convinced I could fly.
Around midnight, when most people had left and it was just me, Danny, and Uncle Bear, Dad squeezed my hand.
“Olivia, I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t stop riding. Don’t let my dying make you scared of living. Keep that Shadow running. Keep feeling that freedom. Keep being the fearless girl who learned to ride before she learned to drive.”
“I promise.”
“And one more thing. When you have kids, if you have a daughter… teach her to ride. Tell her about her grandpa Hawk. Tell her about the biker who loved her mama more than anything in this world.”
“I’ll tell her everything,” I sobbed. “I’ll tell her you were the best man I ever knew.”
Dad lasted three more weeks. Three weeks where Danny and I postponed our honeymoon and spent every day in that hospital room. Three weeks where the Iron Guardians took shifts making sure Dad was never alone. Three weeks where I got to say everything I needed to say.
He died on a Tuesday morning with me holding one hand and Uncle Bear holding the other. His last words were “ride free, Little Wing.”
The funeral was the biggest motorcycle procession our town had ever seen. Three hundred bikers from seventeen different clubs showed up to honor Dad. We rode from the funeral home to the cemetery, and I led the procession on my Shadow 750, wearing Dad’s leather vest over my black dress.
At the burial, I placed that bracelet in Dad’s hand before they closed the casket. Twelve bikes we’d ridden together. One angel for all the rides ahead.
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