Inside was a letter.
Marcus had spent years volunteering quietly with a local program that helped boys whose fathers were absent, incarcerated, or dead.
I knew he'd occasionally worked on bicycles with kids.
I hadn't known how involved he'd become.
According to Ray, Marcus taught them basic mechanics.
Oil changes.
Brake repairs.
How to use tools.
But mostly, he gave them somewhere to be on Saturday mornings.
There was one boy in particular named Caleb.
Twelve years old.
His father had died two years earlier.
Caleb wanted to become a mechanic.
Marcus had apparently taken him under his wing.
The program's workshop was about to close.
Rent.
Insurance.
Tools.
They were running out of money.
Marcus knew his Harley could keep it open.
"He told me the motorcycle had already given him everything he needed from it," Ray said.
"What does that mean?"
Ray smiled sadly.
"Freedom."
I looked at my son's bike.
For years, I'd thought that Harley was one of Marcus's most valuable possessions.
Apparently Marcus had decided its greatest value wasn't sitting in a parking lot.
It was what it could become for somebody else.
"Why one dollar?"
"Because he didn't trust me to follow through if he simply left it to me."
That almost made me laugh.
Marcus knew his friends.
Ray continued.
"He made me promise."
"What exactly?"
"That after he was gone, I'd sell it for the best price I could get and give every dollar to the youth workshop."
I looked at the FOR SALE sign.
Suddenly, it didn't seem disrespectful.
It looked like my son's final instruction.
But I couldn't do it.
Not yet.
"Take the sign down."
Ray studied me.
"Sir—"
"Please."
He removed it.
I put my hand on Marcus's handlebars.
For a moment, I was angry at my son.
Angry he'd hidden his illness.
Angry he'd made plans without me.
Angry that even after dying, he'd found a way to make me let go of another piece of him.