Around the corner from The Small Street, at the end of the next block is a little makeshift shrine in honor of the young man who died there in the wee hours of Monday morning. Two ridiculously young men, one 25 and the other 22 riddled the street with bullets trying to take each other out. The 25 year old died from a shot to the head while the 22 year old is in hospital with leg wounds.
As I drove by the shrine on my way back from dropping off the kids at school, I couldn't help wondering how they felt when they pulled the trigger. Where they shaking? Where they scared? Two men barely out of childhood blindly peppering the street and surrounding cars with bullets. Was it the fear that spurred them on? Did they even for a moment wish that they were safe at home in their beds listening to the soft breath of loved ones near by? Or did they fancy themselves the heroes of a John Singleton movie? Worst of all, when that final bullet hit home did they realize, too late, that this was indeed real life and that they had just made the most monumental of monumental mistakes?
And in those last seconds did either of those boys think of their mother's screams of anguish or of their father's tears? Did they wish to take it all back so that they could feel their girlfriend's kiss one last time? Did they think of the emptiness that death would create in their best friend's heart? And what if they had children? How many nights would those little ones cry themselves to sleep before realizing that their daddy wasn't ever, ever coming back?
And as I thought of all this, I stopped the car. For I too, a complete stranger, was crying.
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