The young dl dude in the neighborhood who used to flirt with my partner “Van” and me is dead.
Gunned down in a housing project less than a mile away on Jan. 30.
The Baltimore Sun didn’t even bother to mention his name. Just that he had been shot multiple times and taken to the hospital.
I knew he was still dealing drugs on the corner. I saw him just a few weeks ago. A neighbor today casually mentioned he was shot and died from his wounds.
I’m grieving. Lately I had a strong urge to just walk up to him on the corner and talk.
“Why you dealing drugs and going in and out of jail?”
“Do you dream of doing something else? Something better?”
“How can I help you?”
Now it’s too late. Fuck! He wasn’t even 20 years old yet. I’ve already lived more than twice his short lifespan.
So handsome and tall. And that cute smirk he used to make. Gone. Forever.
That’s not right God. He hadn’t experienced life yet. He probably never even left the hood.
Van told me not to take it so hard. Even if I had reached out he probably wouldn’t have listened, Van said.
“We’ve talked about this and knew how it would turn out,” he said.
But I can’t stop “what if?” from echoing in my mind. “What if? What if?”