Mourning, Made Tender by Mercy
about a poem...
I recently shared a poem called, “Mourning, Made Tender by Mercy.” As some of you know, the poem was based on a murder in my neighborhood.
On Thursday, March 12, 2015, Jim Stuhlman left his house to take the dog for a walk. Jim did this walk nightly, usually joined by his 13 year old daughter, but that night he told her to stay home, it was just a little too late. He put the leash on the dog, grabbed his flashlight, and headed out the door.
I was out walking that night as well. It had been a cold, dreary Philadelphia winter, but that Thursday evening in March was the loveliest in months and the neighborhood felt enchanted. When I left for my walk around 7pm it seemed as if every neighbor was outside. Parents pushed strollers, their fat cheeked babies smiling and kicking their legs, free, finally, from thick winter coats and blankets. People chatted on sidewalks and over hedges about baseball, gardens, the glorious weather. Crocuses popped up on lawns. Kids rode their bikes and climbed trees. The dogs were delighted. The air tasted of pollen and sweetness.
Around the time Jim was shot, I was walking past his street on my way home. I heard the sirens, saw the ambulance. It didn’t even occur to me that someone had been shot. Not on that glorious night in that lovely neighborhood.
As Jim walked the dog, three boys approached him and demanded his wallet. Whatever happened during the quick exchange, Jim was shot once in the chest and the boys ran. When the police arrived, Jim was bleeding on the sidewalk, the dog whimpering beside him, the flashlight still in his hands, shining on the blades of grass, the crocuses, the concrete. Jim’s wallet was still in his back pocket.
I didn’t really know Jim, but by all accounts he was a lovely man.
The three boys involved in the shooting were caught by the police within a few days. Two of the boys were 15 and one was 14. They’d been out playing basketball and one of them decided that they should try to rob someone. When the police searched the home where two of the boys lived, numerous weapons were found. The news reports from that time rarely mentioned parents or family members for the boys.
All three boys are in jail now. The shooter, Tyfine Hamilton, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 25-80 years in prison. His attorney said that Hamilton suffered a lifetime of abuse. Smith, the other 15 year old, was sentenced to 30 years in jail with a possibility of life. The 14 year old is in juvenile detention. Jim’s wife and daughter, family and friends, of course, are sentenced to a lifetime without him, a lifetime of second thoughts, of never feeling quite safe again.
I wrote the poem because I was haunted by all of it, especially Jim telling his daughter to stay home, just that once.
But, I was also haunted by those three boys who went out on a beautiful night to play basketball and ended up killing an innocent man. Those boys were living in a world that adults created, living lives that must have been devoid of some fundamental goodness, living lives where human life, including their own, meant little. They’ll all spend years, maybe the rest of their lives, in prison.
And that is a tragedy, too.