In the hospital room, Danny asked if we could have our first dance there, with Dad. Within an hour, our wedding moved to room 347. Nurses bent rules, the Iron Guardians created a shield at the door, and someone brought cake. We danced to Tim McGraw’s “My Little Girl” while Dad watched, tears in his eyes.
After the song, he handed me a small box. Inside was a silver bracelet with twelve motorcycle charms—one for every bike we’d ridden together. The thirteenth charm was an angel. “That one’s for all the rides we won’t get to take,” he said. “I’ll be with you anyway.” I wore it every day until the funeral.
Dad died three weeks later. His last words: “Ride free, Little Wing.” At his funeral, three hundred bikers rode in procession. I led them on my Honda Shadow 750, wearing his vest, placing the bracelet in his hand before the casket closed.
I kept his Harley—the one I learned to ride on. Uncle Bear and I rebuilt it together, painting Hawk’s Legacy on the tank. A year later, I still ride every Sunday.
I’m now five months pregnant with a daughter. Her name will be Harper James Mitchell—Harper for Harley, James for Dad. People ask how I ride after losing him. I tell them: riding doesn’t remind me of losing him—it reminds me of having him. Every mile, every turn, every roar of the engine is his voice, his hands, his love.
When Harper kicks, I whisper, “Your grandpa would have loved you.” I tell her how he braided my hair, how he cried when I did my first solo ride, how he built my world with love and chrome. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I feel Dad with me—in the wind, in the hum of the engine, in the freedom of the road.
He may have missed walking me down the aisle, but he hasn’t missed a single moment since. Presence isn’t about one day—it’s about being there always. Dad’s legacy lives every time I twist the throttle, every time Harper kicks, every time I whisper, “Ride free, Hawk.” His love rides on, forever.
