About the summer she painted her bicycle yellow and got paint in her hair.
About how she once organized a neighborhood fundraiser to buy a new wheelchair for a classmate.
And about her habit of humming whenever she concentrated.
Rosie listened.
Sometimes she laughed.
Sometimes she asked questions.
Occasionally, she became quiet.
Then, one evening, she said something that stayed with me.
“Grandpa, when you tell stories, Mom feels closer.”
I looked toward the photograph.
For a moment, my eyes filled.
Then I whispered.
“She does to me too.”
A month after we met, I returned to Arizona.
This time, I drove my pickup instead of riding the motorcycle.
The back was filled with tools, spare parts, and a small wooden workbench I'd built for Rosie.
I'd also packed a carefully restored bicycle.
It was yellow.
The same color Mara chose when she was seven.
I knew a bicycle wouldn't replace anything Rosie had lost.
But I wanted to give her something we could enjoy together.
Something that didn't require us to talk about grief every minute.
When I pulled into Evelyn's driveway, Rosie came running out of the house.
Her yellow raincoat flapped behind her.
“GRANDPA!”
I barely had time to close the truck door before she wrapped her arms around my waist.
I laughed.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“You came!”
I held her.
“Told you I would.”
She stepped backward.
Then looked toward the truck.
“What'd you bring?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What makes you think I brought something?”
She stared.
Then grinned.
“Because there's a bicycle in the back.”
I laughed.
“Nothing gets past you.”
We unloaded the workbench first.
It was small enough for her to use comfortably, with rounded edges, a sturdy surface, and storage for beginner tools.
She inspected it carefully.
Then looked toward me.
“Did you make this?”
I nodded.
“With some help.”
She looked impressed.
“From who?”
“Bishop.”
Rosie smiled.
“Your biker friend?”
“That's the one.”
She considered.
“Is he nice?”
I laughed.
“Depends on the day.”
Evelyn stepped onto the porch.
She watched us with a smile.
Then called.
“Raymond, don't teach her to take the lawnmower apart before dinner.”
I grinned.
“No promises.”
Rosie laughed.
For a moment, the yard seemed full of ordinary happiness.
And I realized how much I'd missed the sound of family life.
That afternoon, Rosie and I worked on the yellow bicycle.
It was an older model I'd found in a garage sale.
The frame was sound, but it needed new tires, adjusted brakes, and several small repairs.
I could have completed everything before bringing it.
But I wanted Rosie to learn.