It was the way the tattooed man with the beard checked the temperature of my coffee before bringing it to me,
Making sure it wasn’t too hot for my mouth sores.
It was the way his friend was quietly washing my dishes—
The ones that had been piling up for two weeks
Because I couldn’t stand long enough to clean them anymore.
It was the way they moved through my kitchen like they’d done this before.
Like taking care of a dying old woman who’d spent thirty years hating them
Was just something they did on Tuesday mornings.
I’m Margaret Anne Hoffman,
And I’ve lived at 412 Maple Street for fifty-three years.
I raised three children in this house.
I buried my husband from this house.
And I spent the last thirty years of my life
Trying to destroy the motorcycle club that moved in next door—
Convinced they were criminals.
Drug dealers.
Thugs who were ruining our peaceful neighborhood.
I filed 127 noise complaints.
I called the police on them 89 times.
I started a petition to have their clubhouse shut down that got 340 signatures.
