This will be etched in my memory for the rest of my life.

The rain is pouring down as family, friends, and community members arrive for a prayer vigil.

Three days earlier, in this very spot, three-year-old Armonie Booker and twenty-two-year-old Jaishawn Johnson were gunned down in a senseless act of violence.

The parking lot is surrounded by police, lights flashing. I count fifteen police cars. Maybe thirty officers.

I’m greeting people as they arrive when I see a young woman with two adorable little girls. Both look to be under four.

“Hi, thanks for being here. Are you family or friends?”

I wasn’t prepared for what she said next.

“These are Armonie’s preschool classmates and friends.”

It felt like someone punched me in the chest. The air sucked right out of my lungs.

I had no words. None. I couldn’t think of a single word to say in that moment that was worth a cent.

“I’m sorry. I bet you were great friends. I love your dress. My daughter would love that dress.”

We smile at each other, and I move on to greet others.

Those little girls will grow up with a deep understanding of violence. Yet, they likely won’t remember tonight.

We proceed with the prayer vigil, led by my friend and other clergy.

As we close things out, family and friends step out from under the cover of the walkway, and hoist their balloons into the air.

It looks like a birthday party. In a way, it was. Armonie was killed on his third birthday.

A car pulls up, opens all the doors, and begins playing a song. The song was written by Armonie’s dad about his firstborn son.

The balloons take flight into the air. “Happy Birthday!” I watch a “3” balloon fly over the building and disappear into the sky.

Happy Birthday, Armonie. I’m sorry.