It’s virtually impossible to find the right words in the face of mass tragedies like the shooting in Orlando. In fact, it’s virtually impossible to find any words at all.
The poet Donte Collins writes: “I don’t have language. I don’t have language. I throw up my hands. I weep.”
Eric was my mother’s youngest sibling. There were two brothers, the oldest and the youngest of the brood, and three sisters in the middle. All the siblings, but my mother, were married when Eric was born, and my mother wound up being left at home to help my grandmother with the chores when Eric was a baby.