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Sonya Love softly clears her throat. She smooths her custom-fit sequin dress that was sewn by her mother’s expert hands. The mic is ready. The audience is ready. The band is poised, waiting for her signal.
But she is not ready. It is too soon. The images of her brother, Dorian, languish in her mind. His body lying face down in the dirt. A single bullet hole smoking through his chest.
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Sonya Love softly clears her throat. She smooths her custom-fit sequin dress that was sewn by her mother’s expert hands. The mic is ready. The audience is ready. The band is poised, waiting for her signal.
But she is not ready. It is too soon. The images of her brother, Dorian, languish in her mind. His body lying face down in the dirt. A single bullet hole smoking through his chest.
Sonya has not yet come to terms with what happened. Folks say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That he was driving in the wrong neighborhood. That his mannerisms, his facial expression, his speech was all wrong.
She is still in shock. Blindsided by the news. A White police officer is found non-responsible for taking Dorian’s life. A mistake, they say. Fear, they say. Chaos and confusion, they say.
Sonya sighs gently. This song is too happy for her soul. It is a song of celebration, of joy, of blue skies filled with brightly colored balloons.
It will not reflect the horror of the theft of her brother’s life months ago. It will not express the sadness she felt when a misguided vigilante retaliated and killed the offending police officer. It will not answer her many questions.
Yet, she knows she must sing. It is her only voice. It is her only power. Sonya smiles brightly, her eyes twinkling. She nods to the band, then begins to sing her song.

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