Yesterday,
my wife and I attended the sentencing of the adult in the car who gave a
fifteen-year-old a gun with the order, “Wet his shirt! Take care of business!”
The
adult was thirty-one years old. The kid who pulled a trigger was fifteen.
We
were asked to write and present a victim’s impact statement on behalf of our
son, Wil Lewis, and I’ve been dragging my feet in doing so. Mostly because it
is incredibly difficult to put into words what Wil’s death means to us. Our
lives have forever changed because of what took place on July 12, 2014.
One
of the problems is that time stands still. There are no current photographs.
There are no current stories. No updates on his job, his wife, his family.
Kim
and I celebrate our wedding anniversary on July 11. Normally, a happy occasion,
and for the most part, it is. But one day later, we honor the memory of our
son, Wil, which puts a cloud over our anniversary. In fact, there is a cloud
over all family celebrations and family get-togethers. Because of July 12,
2014, there has been and will always be an empty chair. It will never be
filled. It will always be empty.
Wil
is, and will always be remembered as a survivor. He was born to an alcoholic,
drug-abusing prostitute. He never knew his father. He shared a bed with several
of his younger brothers and sisters. There were cigarette burns on his arms. A
scar on his foot from being stepped on with a stiletto heal. There was scaring
on his back from boiling water.
Twice,
his mother dropped him off at an open-air market in Guatemala City, and then
left. He was only four-years-old. Yet, he was smart and resourceful enough that
found his way back home each time. Their home, a one or two room shack, had a
dirt floor. There was no running water. He used rainwater to bathe in, and a
bucket and a pump to fetch drinking water.
It
took three years, patience, perseverance, and mounds of paperwork, but one
month and one day after Hannah was born, I flew to Guatemala to get Wil.
On
Friday, July 11, 2014, Wil called Kim and me to wish us a Happy Anniversary. He
also had some great news to share. He had received an offer of a job, what he
called his dream job, as a Fashion Photographer for Trunk Club. He was to have
begun that job on Monday, July 14, 2014. Wil and Maria had discussed having
children now that both had full-time jobs with benefits. Kim and I were looking
forward to being grandparents.
But
on Saturday, July 12, 2014, Wil was shot and killed by a fifteen-year-old boy,
who had been given a gun by a thirty-one-year-old adult with the instructions
to, “Wet his shirt!” They had spotted a rival gang member and wanted to take
his life, regardless of who was in the way.
Each
birthday, there is an empty chair. Each Christmas, each Thanksgiving, every holiday
or family gathering, there is an empty chair.
An
empty chair, because the adult in the car failed to act like an adult. An empty
chair, because the adult in the car, instead of turning the car around or
instead of just driving on decided to stop and give a gun with an extended clip
to a fifteen-year-old boy in order to shoot and kill a gang rival over a rap
song. That chair is empty, because the adult in the car, said to a
fifteen-year-old boy, “Wet his shirt!” and “Take care of business!”
On
the afternoon of Saturday, July 12, 2014, a fifteen-year-old fired a revolver
at a gang rival on a crowded street. The sidewalk was full of pedestrians. I
imagine some were heading off to a late lunch or an early dinner. Some might
have been taking an afternoon walk. Some might have been shopping. Each of
those pedestrians had no idea that an adult had handed a fifteen-year-old a
gun. None of those pedestrians knew that the adult had given an order to a
fifteen-year-old to “Wet his shirt!” and to “Take care of business!”
Our
son, Wil, was one of those pedestrians. He had gotten something to eat, picked
up some items at a store for Maria’s and his new apartment, and was heading
home minding his own business.
Wil
was shot in the back. Yet, the gang rival ended up running away from the
shooting, but our son, Wil, couldn’t run away. Instead, he lay bleeding to
death on the sidewalk.
As
a result of that Saturday afternoon, July 12, 2014, our daughters, Hannah and Emily,
can no longer call Wil with news, good or bad. Hannah couldn’t share news of
her college graduation, news of her first job as a teacher, news that she and
her boyfriend, Alex, are engaged. Emily couldn’t share her high school
graduation with Wil. She couldn’t share the news that she is a four-year
starter on her collegiate soccer team and won an award for All-Conference
Defender this past year.
They
won’t be able to have Wil at their weddings or any other memorable event. There
are songs we can no longer listen to, movies we can’t watch, places that are
hard to go to, because they remind us of Wil, of that day, July 12, 2014. Our
daughter-in-law, Maria, lost her soulmate. Wil loved her more than life itself.
They shared so many wonderful adventures and were looking forward to many more.
Wil’s
smile that lit up a room, his laugh that caused others to laugh, his
gentleness, are gone. His smile, his laugh, and his gentleness have been taken
from us. All we have left are memories.
All
of us have changed. Perhaps we smile and laugh less. Perhaps we are more
cautious than we have been. One daughter finds it difficult to take part in any
discussion, any stories of Wil, and instead leaves the room to be by herself.
Kim cries a little more, hurts a little more than she has. For me, I have
regrets. I wonder if I was a good enough father, a good enough dad. Both of us
wonder if there was something more we could have done, should have done.
Every
July 12th, we do something in his name, in his honor because he is no longer
with us. He died on that sidewalk as the adult in the car laughed and made fun
of him. Instead of celebrating with Wil, instead of getting to be with Wil, we
only honor his memory, Wil’s life. Far from perfect. Far from satisfactory.
The
adult in the car received 66 years in prison, ten years over the minimum. He is
not eligible for parole. The fifteen-year-old who pulled the trigger received 6
years in juvenile detention. He is now out on the street. His record is sealed.
The adult will never be able to hurt someone else again. The fifteen-year-old
who is now twenty-one . . . who knows? We hope not.
The
thing is, each of us suffers loss. Death of a husband or wife. Death of a
mother or father. Death of a dear friend, a son or daughter. Each of us has
suffered a loss to one degree or another. Some loss happens in a brief moment
in time, while other loss occurs over excruciating time.
And
those among us who experienced a loss carry it around with us like unwanted
luggage. The Samsonite nobody wanted. Each loss carries its own weight and is
measured in the hearts of those left behind. Loss is not anything to get over. Each
of us deal with it- each day, each week, each family celebration and
get together. The loss is always, always with us. But we deal with it as best
we can, as imperfectly as we can. That’s what we do. That’s how we live. Each
of us.
Something to think about . . .