His Last Words
In a couple of days, it will be my son’s 21st birthday. Twenty-one is the age where he is finally considered a man. He is an official adult, deemed by society because he is legally old enough to drink and smoke. He would be so excited for this day to come. Except, he isn’t here to celebrate it. He is in an urn on the mantel above our fireplace.
Gabriel Romero was just a nineteen-year-old kid when Albuquerque Police Officer Douglas Moore shot him with a department-issued rifle nine times. His last words were, “Stop… Stop. Stop!!!”
The officer didn’t stop. But Gabriel’s heart did.
I was blissfully unaware of the incident that occurred that afternoon. I didn’t find out from the police department that my son was killed on the scene and didn’t make it to the hospital. He was carried out in a body bag, not on a stretcher. I had to find out from Gabe’s best friend, who called while I was writing Christmas cards for my co-workers that winter night.
I didn’t believe it.
I couldn’t.
