The national news had been filled with stories about unarmed Black boys and men killed by policemen; while the local news had been decrying the frequency of homicides in city neighborhoods.
I set aside my opinions about race relations in twenty-first century USA. On 39th and Troost in midtown Kansas City, I held a candle. We were only a few, our presence on that sidewalk brief, but I felt consoled with my hands folded in prayer around a taper. Drivers tapped their horns, some waved, and the gestures united us in grief and united us in our exhaustion from grieving. A gust sneaked up my coat sleeve. I shivered. It was a night to mourn.
(Read more about my reaction to violence.)