One year of his mother’s songs. One year of hands learning to hold, a laugh still new to the world. We do not gather here because of how he was taken — we gather because of what he was given: a name, a family, a light that belonged to him alone.
You do not grieve alone, and his family does not grieve alone. This page holds his light so anyone, anywhere, can sit with it.
“Justice is what love looks like in public.”
DR. CORNEL WEST
He was one year old.
One year of mornings, of milk and warm blankets,
of a laugh still new to the world.
Senatobia knows his name. Mississippi knows his name.
Now the whole world says it softly, the way you say
a prayer you refuse to end: Kohen. Kohen. Kohen.
Grief is love with nowhere left to land.
So we build it a place — here —
and we keep the light on.
This page is love, in public.
This service is held here, in the open, whenever you arrive.
Wherever you are — a kitchen, a porch, a parked car — you have arrived. Be still a moment.
Look on his portrait. Say his name aloud, once, gently. Names are how we carry one another.
Read slowly. Let the words keep him company. There is no hurry in this room.
Light a candle below and let it burn where you are. It will be here, still lit, when you return.
Post a public word — your love for Kohen, or your anger at what took him. Both belong here.
Go and be tender with the living. Love loudly. That is the ode, continued.
Your candle burns here for Kohen{{ litSince }}.
It joins {{ candlesOther }} more flames carrying his name.
A single flame, kept by whoever shows up. Light yours, and this page will keep it burning whenever you return. Move gently near it — the flame feels the air.
Post a public word — your love for Kohen, or your anger at the officer and the system that took him. Both belong on this wall. Anger, here, is love with a demand.
Your word is on the wall. Kohen’s family — and everyone watching — will see he is not alone.
Now bring one more voice with you.
{{ L.m }}
The wall above is public. This one is private. If you have no words of your own, take these — copy them, sign your name, and send them wherever the family can receive them: a card, a message, a prayer said aloud.
Say his name where you are — Kohen — and let tenderness be the proof that he was here.