Today, while on my home computer facing the 2nd floor window, I heard the POP! four times. I thought they were just firecrackers, which tend to fill the air on this block as the weather gets warmer. I also remind myself that even though we live within earshot of H-Block's core, our Hollander St. has been pretty calm for the past several years. My attention is drawn back to the street when I hear a car peel off, and then immediately after, the moaning for help. I look through the window, half way down the block, to see a man lying on the sidewalk, face down. From the other room, my wife is asking if I heard the gunshots. She gets my response as I throw on some sneakers and race out to join my neighbors in helping the young man.

I soon see that he is the relative of my good friends from across the street. His family members are either weeping or cursing, while the patriarch clasps the victims hand tight. The victim is lucid, telling us that he was rolled up on by men who jumped out of a car and rushed him. He instinctively turned to run, but was struck by one of the four bullets. His demeanor is calm; if he is in pain, I can't tell, that is until he says that he can't feel his legs and that his back stings.

Within minutes an unmarked car arrives, the cop urges us to get back. He also asks us if anyone saw anything, to which we all say that we only heard the shots fired. Moments later, back-up arrives, followed by the ambulance. They yellow tape the entire corner and keep moving us back. I watch as an officer systematically frisks the victim, gently. I know it is a matter of protocol, but it still makes my stomach muscles clench tight. The victim is then lifted onto the stretcher and taken off. I return home, but from my computer room window I can still hear the same cop telling people to back up, that they need to look for evidence.

I keep thinking about how astonished I was that the victim didn't even let out anything more anguished than a low moan- an "owww" that reminded me of myself after stubbing my toe this morning. I think about how different it would be if I were there lying on the sidewalk, how I would undoubtedly be crying, tears and blood staining the concrete, my clothes. I also think about where those other three bullets struck. They could have lodged into the house behind the scene of the crime; they could have hit my house. This thought disturbs me, so I try to get back to work, but my three year old daughter, whom I assumed to be napping, opens the computer room door to ask me what happened. Struck by her awareness, I hesitated. She knows her grandmother is no longer with us, that her "Nonna is in the sky". She also knows what happened when Scar turned on Mufasa in that animated classic. I can imagine that she would grasp what happened, but I am just not ready for that conversation. So I decide to tell her that some neighborhood kid hurt his hand by lighting off fireworks.

I go to the pharmacy to get a sympathy card for the family. I will never forget how shaken up they were. They are a family of several generations that seems to always accommodate more members. Their home is like the HQ for extended family. Some of my best memories of the summer-time took place during their backyard cookouts. Cracking crab legs among friends, family. The head of the household, retired last year, learned me everything he knew as a gardener. I owe my last year's harvest, my first, to him. I never had collared greens until this southern native gave me three seedlings. I was picking leaves off those plants well into December, leaving him mighty impressed. He and his family always asking about my little girl; they need to know that my family is here for theirs. I want to remind them that we live in a good neighborhood...but how can I sound convincing when this tragedy went down on our very own block?