Our son Mark was murdered on December 14, 1998, shortly after this photograph was taken. He was a 25-year-old Juilliard-trained professional trombonist who had a bright future ahead of him. He was a kind child who grew up to be an even kinder man. Everyone loved him.
Since he died, over 20 years ago now, I have repeatedly asked myself, “Where did he go? Where did that charismatic personality, that talent, that love of music and everything else, go?” Ironically, 14 years to the day after he died, 26 more innocents were blasted away at Sandy Hook. Where did they go? Where will the 105 people who will be killed by firearms today go? These are not a random existential questions.
Mark’s dying changed my life forever. The pain remains, but I hear from him occasionally, in very strange and surprising ways. And that, in the face of political indifference, is my comfort.