I want to look at the world the way my son looks at his hands: bright and full of wonder. How he finds every piece of fluff tucked under the carpet corners and each dirty coin fallen from a pocket before bringing it directly to his mouth. I watch him test the limits of his body, balancing first on his belly, then dragging on forearms before lifting to hands and knees. Oh, movement: the first sweet taste of autonomy. As he lifts his arms upward, steadies and straightens his legs, thick trunks of the softest tree, he screeches in delight, pure triumph glowing in his cheeks.

Meanwhile, a ballroom in Monterey Park. Meanwhile, a farm in Half Moon Bay. An elementary school in Uvalde. A movie theater in Aurora. An Orlando nightclub. A Charleston church. An Atlanta spa. Mother’s Day in New Orleans, a Sunday afternoon.

I used to ride my bicycle without a helmet, drink carelessly with strangers, go to the movies alone and forget myself in the dark. Today, I’m still astonished and afraid.