To the mothers of Stanley Almodovar III; Amanda Alvear; Oscar A Aracena-Montero; Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala; Antonio Davon Brown; Darryl Roman Burt II; Angel L. Candelario-Padro; Juan Chevez-Martinez; Luis Daniel Conde; Cory James Connell; Tevin Eugene Crosby; Deonka Deidra Drayton; Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez; Leroy Valentin Fernandez; Mercedez Marisol Flores; Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz; Juan Ramon Guerrero; Paul Terrell Henry; Frank Hernandez; Miguel Angel Honorato; Javier Jorge-Reyes; Jason Benjamin Josaphat; Eddie Jamoldroy Justice; Anthony Luis Laureanodisla; Christopher Andrew Leinonen; Alejandro Barrios Martinez; Brenda Lee Marquez McCool; Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez; Kimberly Morris; Akyra Monet Murray; Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo; Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez; Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera; Joel Rayon Paniagua; Jean Carlos Mendez Perez; Enrique L. Rios, Jr; Jean C. Nives Rodriguez; Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado; Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz; Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan; Edward Sotomayor Jr.; Shane Evan Tomlinson; Martin Benitez Torres; Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega; Juan P. Rivera Velazquez; Luis S. Vielma; Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez; Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon; Jerald Arthur Wright; and Christina Grimmie,

I cannot begin to understand the pain that you are feeling, both in this moment and ever after. I am not a mother; I do not know that kind of love, that kind of loss or suffering.

I cannot, I also imagine, understand your confusion, your anger, that this pain was caused by such a senseless act of violence, of hatred, of homophobia. That the child that once kicked your protruding belly, that once ran into your arms, that got ice cream on the tip of their nose, was taken from a world that so desperately needed their beauty. That the child you sang songs to, read stories to, kissed their oopsies and ouchies, was taken from you.

When people talk about cancer, the conversation is usually filled with unprecedented optimism, with when we beat it, the enemy a disease with known causes and resources devoted for a cure. There are sections of hospitals devoted to fighting the endless war against this disease, doctors armed as lieutenants, millions of dollars supplying ammunition. When someone dies of cancer, their families are given casseroles and flowers and it seems to reignite this unification of hope that some day, some day, we will beat this thing. There are fucking rom coms about it.

I’m sorry that your child was taken by something far worse.

I’m sorry that you have to watch the news and see new theories about the disease that took your child. I’m sorry that you are given debates about gun regulations instead of a hopeful some day. I’m sorry that, at this juncture, it’s doubtful anything will change; that the public will lose their focus and outrage until the next shooting, and even then their attention span is shortened by the desensitization of the violence in our world. I’m sorry that our policy makers have given you empty thoughts and prayers instead of promises for reform and change. I’m sorry that the money our government gets from the NRA continues to squander any hope for a cure.

I’m sorry that a man can wake up, buy a gun, and decide to kill your child.

I’m sorry that the news has repeated the name Omar Mateen countless times but barely uttered your child’s.

I’ve heard that nothing can compare to a mother’s love; that there is no better pain than burying a child; that “grief is love with no place to go." I find myself leaning heavily on clichés, speechless and unable to convey how disgusted I am by the events that transpired and how truly sorry I am that they tore your life apart.

I’ll end with the far more powerful Lin- Manuel Miranda, who promised, “Love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside.” I can promise that I will say your child’s name every morning and that I will spread love and hope that, some day, it will cure the hate. I know that doesn’t bring back your son, your daughter. I know that doesn’t ease your pain. I know that doesn’t bring them back, sit them on your lap, or put ice cream back on their nose for you to kiss off. I know the gunmen took the love of your life, that they took the birthdays and graduations and weddings and grandchildren and all the other plans you’d had for them from the time they were just kicking your belly. But we cannot let them take our hope; we cannot let them replace our love with hate.