Gunshots woke me up. I covered my son and waited. Heartbeats pounded like a jackhammer. Slowly, I left the bed and peeked between curtains at the street below. Three young men sprinted into the night.
I breathed. Reflected in the window, my face floated over the buildings. So many shootings. In that doorway, a gang drive-by left a man clutching a bloody hip. On the corner, a girl was killed. On the stoop, a boy was riddled with bullets. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire echoed through my memory. I went back to bed and stroked my son’s plump cheeks. How do I keep him safe?… continue reading.