I do not know exactly how everyone feels when they lose someone to gun violence. I need to say that at the start. I do know that it is all horrible and so painful that a surviving loved one can barely take it, at times.
Here is how I felt. In truth, I am feeling it still.
On December 28, 1984, I was standing in the newsroom of the Wilmington, N.C., newspaper where I worked as a reporter. Carrying my 13-month-old son, Tyler, I had stopped by the newspaper briefly that day.
As I chatted with one friend, another told me that Candace was on the phone and I needed to talk with her right now. I picked up the phone receiver and heard Candace crying, screaming and trying to tell me something. I finally understood. Her brother Milton had been found murdered outside his Fort Worth, Texas, home.
I have never forgotten Candace’s desperate grief. I try not to remember that moment, but some days something happens that brings it back.
I walked out of that building shaking, trying to remain calm enough to place Tyler in his car seat, get him all securely buckled up and drive home. I kept thinking that this must be a bad mistake, that some terribly unfortunate man had been misidentified as Milton. I could not imagine anyone hurting one of the kindest, most generous and lovable men I knew. As I drove up to our house, I was thinking it would all work out, that Milton was really alive.
Soon that day, I had to admit that Milton was dead. Shot and beaten to death in the early morning hours of that day, long before daylight. Found on a lawn across the street from his home.
Candace was distraught and I worried about her and the baby she was carrying at five months. I called her doctor. He told me that Candace and the baby would be okay. I still worried. I had never seen her like that, so awfully heartbroken and crying and crying.
Candace’s mom and dad left for Texas, asking us to arrange for a grave site. To this day, I struggle at that place. It is pretty and quiet and out in the country. Standing at that plot of cold ground where his body was to be placed soon, all I could think was that Milton should not be there. He loved the city life, he loved life. Milton loved people and being with people. That country place was no place for him, I thought then and I think today. I cried there then and I cry now when I visit. Yes, it has been a long time. It feels awful, still.
Here is some of what I struggled with back then and for many years to come. Milton was running for his life, trying to get away from someone out to kill him.
–What was he thinking?
–Was he thinking he still had a chance to get away?
— Was he thinking that someone would come outside a house and save him?
–How badly did it hurt when that bullet pierced his upper body, passing right through it?
–Did he plead with the killer not to finish him off?
–How much of the beating did he feel before dying?
For many years, I struggled with this in particular. I knew Milton very well. I could too easily imagine what his voice sounded like as he fought for his life. I kept hearing it again and again in my mind.
I have countless good memories of Milton. And, that is where I let my thoughts go these days.
–I think about what we thought was funny during our days as college roommates.
–I think about our conversations at night as we were about to go sleep.
–I think about how he hated wearing shoes and would walk around campus in nice “office casual” clothes with no shoes.
–I think about how my side of the room was neat and clean and his was a mess.
–I think about going downstairs in our residence hall late at night to watch him play poker with other fellows who lived there. We have a photo of him doing just that on our refrigerator.
–I think about the night he walked into our room and said that he had to leave his car in Dallas, an hour away, and that I would have to take him home the next weekend and go out with his sister. And, he excitedly handed me a photo of Candace to seal the deal! It was from her 17th birthday. I still have it.
Finally, here’s how I feel about it all. None of this should have happened. No one had the right to steal his life from him. No one had the right to steal him from his family. It is bad. He should have been all these years having fun with and enjoying his family, riding around in cars playing rock music far too loudly, laughing and visiting with his store’s customers and playing one game or another with friends.
I am going to remember Milton until the day I die. I hope to join him in another life. Until then, I will deal with the sadness and hold onto the good memories.
It's KPC Again 