he ran away from them. They killed him with the shot in the center of his back. I imagined the sword to be a yellowish glowin-the-dark color, with a round-tipped blade. The sword in my imagination has a small red button on its handle that makes the plastic blade flash from within. It looks like the one my younger brother played with as a child, and the young man in the picture looks like my brother. The young man’s name was Darrien Hunt. My brother’s name is Robert Marchant. The officers who killed Darrien have been cleared of any wrongdoing. Their attorney, Heather White, said, “We’re not saying that Darrien Hunt is a bad person, but he made some bad decisions that day.” The sword was considered a weapon by the police officers who killed Darrien. Darrien’s family’s attorney said the sword looked like one “you might win at a carnival for knocking over stuffed animals.” Darrien’s mother said, “No white boy with a little sword would they shoot while he’s running away.” Darrien was a twenty-twoyear-old, mixed-race, brown-skinned male. My brother Robert turned twenty-three that August; he is the darkest of my mother’s children. We grew up in a neighborhood where the police officers pull over my brother and tell him not to drive through their town.
In the winter, our backyard floods with clover. My brother and I climb the trees in our backyard, in the cemetery across the street, in Tilden Regional Park. We hike in the woods and nibble on dark green leaves.