I couldn’t help but imagine me and my little boy in the same situation. So I cried some more, on public transit in Washington, in front of a bunch of strangers.
And I made a friend.
Part embarrassed, part aching for a friendly face, a person who could share in my grief and disbelief, I looked over to the woman next to me. She was brown-skinned with close-cropped graying hair, smartly dressed. “Did you see the video about the shooting in Minnesota?” I asked, wiping tears from my face.
She said she had read a bit about it before she left that morning. And we talked.
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