Harmon was old. That’s true. But old or not, he still moved daily within the pulse of the neighborhood. He raised his cane in greeting to young and old, white, black and brown. It was his neighborhood and he saw all as his neighbors, in the full sense of the word. He braved drug deals and solicitation and wove his fumbling step among them, that old tweed cap making the few wisps of white hair above his ears look like horns.

The area was his downfall. He roamed every block, rounded every corner, even after I and others told him the old neighborhood was gone and danger stalked beside him. He refused to leave. His concession had been to walk only in daylight. But daylight simply made a single gunman into two with the shadow firing in anonymity.

The gunman wanted money. Harmon had little. He laughed and tapped his cane on the gunman’s chest. Several watched, holding a step, breathing only in their mind, as the gunman shoved Harmon against the building. When Harmon used the cane to slice the gunman’s hand into the air the space was mortised by silence. When he turned to go about his day, the shot crumbled the illusion. They all sought shelter in doorways and blindness. The quick burst and flash of the gun ricocheted against the wall as Harmon fell forward, his cane tangled in his legs.

Some said they knew it would happen. An old man like that, uncared for. Left to his own devices. Others whispered that he asked for it, fighting back like that.

I started it, crossing the boundary from haves to have nots, the cross laid against the building a replica of a childhood memory. All of his neighbors took the only risk their fear would allow and placed the flowers. They scuttled out and back, once, the flowers wilting in a week. We couldn’t spend more time on it. Our own survival required attention. I suppose it’s still there.

But you know, I cared. I really did.

Dad, I cared.