<em>Meatloaf, beans, glazed ham, stuffing, potato salad. Name it, Vincent McCollum could cook it.</em></p><p><em>He wanted to open a restaurant. His mother, Rita Smith, doesn&#8217;t know where he came by his talent. Maybe from her, or maybe it was just in him. Holidays, he was her rock. She didn&#8217;t have to worry about anything. He always stepped in. Oh, I&#8217;ll do this, he would say, and take over the kitchen.</em></p><p>Smith stares into her living room and out the window to Highland Avenue. Aug. 1. She saw him briefly that evening. He asked her to pick up some things for one of his three daughters. Little girls need shoes, socks. She went to her job as a home health-care nurse, came home and made a fish dinner. McCollum was outside. She heard the shots and froze. Then she ran to the door. She saw him lying face-down in a yard a few doors down. The police allowed her to get close to him, but not next to him. They had to protect evidence, but she had seen enough. My son is gone, she said to herself.</p><p>She doesn&#8217;t understand why he was killed. And no witnesses. Nobody knows anything. But God, she says, knows.</p><p>Smith gets through the day praying. God won&#8217;t put more on her than she can handle, she believes, but this, this is a hurting thing. She had been to many funerals of young men. All she could say to their families was, God bless you. But now she knows there are no words. People say, I&#8217;ll pray for you, but there are just no words.</p><p>You can tell how a man was loved by the number of people who attend his funeral service, she reminds herself. So many people came out for McCollum, some of them thought there was more than one funeral. How could a man that well-loved be shot like a dog? He would have been 33 next month.</p><p>This month, Smith turned 51. For her birthday, McCollum would have baked a strawberry shortcake. He&#8217;d have called her on her cell phone and sung, <em>Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, toot, toot</em>&#8230;. She laughs. He thought he could sing. Toot, toot. Where&#8217;d he come up with that?</p><p>His friends called McCollum a &#8220;gentle giant.&#8221; He was about 6 foot 2. He helped people who were sick. One woman he looked after died three days after he did. He had known her since he was a child. It was in his nature to help.</p><p>The police talk to Smith from time to time but don&#8217;t have anything to tell her. We&#8217;ll let you know, they say. We&#8217;ll let you know. She understands they are busy, but c&#8217;mon, she thinks, there&#8217;s got to be somebody out here that knows something. People are so afraid to speak up. She worries no one will come forward and wonders what her husband would say about all this. He passed in 2003. She receives mail for him from time to time.</p><p>Smith glances at the clock. Five p.m. Getting up on that time to go to work. She took some days off to organize the funeral. She had no desire to eat and sleep, let alone work. A lot of family and friends around her for days. Still are.</p><p>Her son occupies her mind. She never knows when she&#8217;ll start crying. Her heart feels like it&#8217;s crumbling. Evenings creep up on her. Maybe because of the stillness of nightfall. She tries to rest and there goes her brain. Like a memory slideshow flashing images of her son. Things they said to each other. Things they had done together. They had been looking at a new church to attend. He couldn&#8217;t remember the time of the service. I&#8217;ll see on my way to work, she told him. They were going to go that Sunday, but he died that Friday.</p><p>For a while, balloons and flowers marked the spot where he was shot, but not now. Lasted about a month. No, not even. Doesn&#8217;t matter. No need to mark it. She knows the spot.