There is a persistent, common memory I have from my childhood.

My parents divorced when I was young, and with my mom working evenings from around second grade through sixth grade,

I would ride the bus to my grandma's house, and she would watch me until my mom got off work.

While I have so many beautiful memories of writing poems together or having picnics at the

local lake complete with homemade milkshakes, that's not what I remember most vividly. Instead,

it was the everyday repetitive moment that stands out, even though at the time it seemed small, as I walked up the hill

from the bus stop to my grandma's driveway. She would walk outside, nearly always wiping her hands

on a towel because she was already preparing supper. When I reached the driveway, I'd look up to see her

on the porch. She'd smile, and she'd hold out her arms for a hug. My entire life,

that was my greeting from her. When my grandma passed away, I knew immediately that the most

painful thing I would have to endure would be to walk into the funeral home. Because for the first time in my life, I would see her

and wouldn't see her smile. For the first time in my life, her arms wouldn't open wide for a hug.

That is the loss you feel. It's tangible when one of the most integral people

in your life is gone, someone who made you into the person you are. It's by understanding that

amount of love that you can also imagine the level of anger. So many families

feel when the life of that person who means so much to them, what my grandma meant to me,

is taken. And either they don't know who created that pain in their life, or they know,

but justice has never served.

I thought about that love and that pain a lot this last week while preparing for this case.

I heard so much about the joy in people's lives because he created it.

I heard about the empathy, the care. But I also heard about the violence committed

against that beautiful soul. I heard about the frustration with law enforcement. I heard the sound

...