There are those who say he died because he was black.

Because some racist wanted desperately to be a hero.

And there are those who say he died because he was violent.

Displaying his immaturity in Facebook pictures like some release form from all responsibility.

But…

I think they forget.

I think they forget what’s really important.

He’s gone.

Never forgotten, no.

Never by his mother who probably cries at night.

Looking through albums of baby pictures.

Where she looked upon his upturned baby-face,

With as much love as any parent looks upon their child.

Her love was not black or white, yellow or tan.

Immovable, infallible, pure and without blame.

Her love is a mother’s.

A mother who probably cries at night.

Because he’s gone.

No matter his sins in this world.

No matter the darkness of his skin,

Or the tint of his character.

 He’s gone.

And I think they forget.

That he was a child.

Not fully grown.

Not fully wise of the world, quite yet.

But, I’m sure he had plans.

Plans of growing up.

Of being someone.

Someone who would make his mother proud of him.

Of taking care of her, as she had always taken care of him.

And his mother had plans too, I’m sure.

Of the kind of man he would be.

When he did something stupid.

I’m sure she shook her head.

And couldn’t wait until he grew up and realized how the world worked.

So, he’d know.

I guess he knows.

I think people forget.

That he was most importantly, someone’s child.

A child that held a mother’s love in his heart.

A mother who probably cries at night.

Maybe it’s easier to forget.