I’ve been staring at my black suit for an hour now. Tomorrow is Mike’s funeral, and I still don’t know if I should go. His widow Sarah’s words keep ringing in my ears: “If you hadn’t convinced him to take that ride, he’d still be alive!”
The phone rings. It’s Dave, another member of our riding group.
“Jack, you better not be thinking of skipping tomorrow,” he says without hello.
“Sarah doesn’t want me there, Dave. You didn’t see her face at the hospital.”
“That was three days ago. She was in shock.” Dave’s voice softens. “Look, you’ve been Mike’s riding partner for twenty years. You can’t not be there.”
I close my eyes, remembering that fateful morning. The weather was perfect – crisp autumn air, clear skies. Mike had been hesitating about joining our weekend ride because Sarah wasn’t feeling well.
“Come on, brother,” I’d said. “When was the last time we hit the mountain roads together?”
“Sarah, honey,” Mike had called out. “You sure you’ll be okay if I go?”
I can still see her standing in their doorway, wrapped in a robe, looking pale. “Go ahead. Just be careful.”
We were being careful. Three hours into the ride, taking those familiar curves we’d done hundreds of times. Then that truck came around the bend, too wide, too fast. Mike swerved to avoid it. I watched helplessly in my mirror as his bike went down.
“Jack? You still there?” Dave’s voice brings me back.
“I keep replaying it, Dave. If I hadn’t pushed him to come…”
“Stop that nonsense. Mike was a grown man who made his own choices. That truck driver’s the one who crossed the line.”
My phone beeps – another call coming in. It’s Tom, Mike’s son.
“Dave, I need to take this.”
“Promise me you’ll come tomorrow.”
I switch calls. “Hey, Tom.”
“Uncle Jack.” He’s called me that since he was five. “Mom wants to talk to you.”
My heart stops. Before I can protest, Sarah’s voice comes on the line.
“Jack?” She sounds different. Tired. “Are you coming tomorrow?”
“Sarah, I… I know you blame me. Maybe you’re right. I can stay away if—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “I was wrong to say those things. Mike…” her voice breaks. “Mike loved riding with you. You were his best friend for thirty years. He’d want you there.”
I grip the phone tighter. “The last thing I want is to cause you more pain.”
“You know what would cause me pain? Looking at that empty spot where his best friend should be standing. Please come.”
The next morning, I put on the black suit. At the funeral, Sarah hugs me tight. “Mike always said you were the brother he never had,” she whispers.
After the service, our riding group gathers. We’re all in suits instead of leather, but we stand together, sharing stories about Mike. Tom joins us, wearing his dad’s favorite riding jacket.
“Dad’s bike,” he says. “I want to fix it up. Would you help me, Uncle Jack?”
I look at Sarah. She nods, a small smile through her tears.
“Your dad taught you the basics,” I say. “Time I helped you with the rest.”
Later, as I ride home, the setting sun paints the sky orange – Mike’s favorite time to ride. I can almost hear him laughing beside me, telling me to stop being so serious. Some bonds, I realize, even death can’t break. And sometimes, the best way to honor them is to keep them alive through the people we still have.
Dave rides up beside me, giving me a nod. We take the turn toward our usual sunset spot. Tomorrow will bring new roads, and new memories. But tonight, we ride for Mike.
