My little one said when she was alone three nights ago, she held her hand in the air. She demonstrated, hand above her head palm forward and out. "If you're there," she told the space around her, "Give me five."
"For a ghost?" I asked.
"For Mr. Phil. He always gave us five in the mornings when we walked through the breakfast line." Philando Castile.
"But he wasn't there," she said. "He'll never be there again. I'll never see him again."
I felt that familiar rush of tears and hot grief. "No, sweetie, we'll never see him again." And I pulled her into a tight hug--for her comfort and for my own.
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