The president looked toward the photograph of his friend hanging above the workbench.
Then whispered, “And if she wants to tell us what to change, we listen.”
One of the mechanics grinned.
“Especially about the cookies.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
The president smiled.
“Especially about the cookies.”
Then he reached toward his vest.
Near the top pocket was a small five-pointed star.
He had sewn it there the previous evening.
The star was simple.
Silver thread against black leather.
He touched it.
Then looked toward the riders.
“Let's go.”
The club left the workshop.
The motorcycles moved through Tulsa in a quiet, orderly procession.
There were no stunts.
No unnecessary noise.
No attempt to turn the trip into a spectacle.
They were simply a group of friends carrying something important to a birthday party.
At the community hall, the girl's mother was finishing the decorations.
Pink and purple balloons floated near the ceiling.
A large banner read Happy 8th Birthday.
The tables were covered with colorful cloths.
Wrapped presents stood beside the cake.
And near the center of the room, the birthday girl sat in her old black wheelchair with her notebook resting across her lap.
She had spent the morning drawing more ideas.
A little umbrella.
A flag.
A small basket for flowers.
And a tiny shelf she described as a parking place for her favorite stuffed animal.
Her mother watched her.
For a moment, she felt a familiar wave of sadness.
Her husband should have been there.
He should have been helping arrange the tables.
He should have been making terrible jokes about the cake.
He should have been carrying their daughter toward the decorations while she complained that he was embarrassing her.
But he wasn't.
And the mother knew there would be days like this for the rest of their lives.
Birthdays.
Graduations.
First dates.
Ordinary afternoons.
Moments when his absence would be visible even if nobody mentioned it.
She took a breath.
Then walked toward her daughter.
“Having a good birthday?”
The little girl nodded.
“Yes.”
Her mother smiled.
“Good.”
The child looked toward the doorway.
“Are the bikers coming?”
Her mother nodded.
“They said they would.”
The girl grinned.
“Do you think they brought motorcycles?”
Her mother laughed.
“Probably.”
The child looked pleased.
Then she became serious.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Daddy would've liked my birthday decorations?”
The mother swallowed.
She looked around the room.