My little one just came in, and saw this photo. It shows the essence of Mr. Phil, Philando Castile, who was murdered by a police officer and our culture of racism Wednesday night, while driving home from the grocery story.
"That's our Mr. Phil," I said.
She put her small hand over his image on the screen. "He's not there."
I moved her hand away. "That's Mr. Phil. Our Mr. Phil with his mama."
She put her hand over his image once more. "He's not there," she said again.
I thought I understood, then. "You mean he's dead." I tilted my head back, my neck in pain. "He's dead and he won't be there any more, is that it?"
She waited, quietly, her hand still covering his image.
I nodded. "I guess we need to find a way that he can stay with us and still be dead."
"Yeah," she said. "Like maybe in that movie with the guy with the white hair, where he draws a mustache on his face and they arrest the other guy." I think she is referring to Leslie Neilson in one of his silly movies. I'm honestly not sure. But I nod again.
"Maybe that would work."
She takes her hand off his face and wanders out of the room.
We will never be normal again.
