My niece Sandy, whom I helped raise under my own umbrella, went to the beach. Isn’t the sun always supposed to be shining at the beach? She and her cousins wanted to watch the motorcycle parades. They were young, beautiful and, they figured, invincible. A little bit of rain and the thunder surrounding one fight on the beach was not supposed to quickly and without warning turn into a devastating tsunami. Lightning strike! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Sandy PaTrice Geddis Barnwell was running for cover, but the lightning struck her in the forehead. The forecast was the darkest that I ever received when the coroner informed me that the storm had casualties that and my Lovely, my sister’s ONLY child, was not coming home—ever again. No one expected lightning on the beach. Four young people having fun in the sand and sun, partying with no cares, shot down. One young man shot five times and still struggling with the injuries. Two young men killed. My Sandy forever taken in senseless gun violence. The sun is still not shining on my sister.