On Friday, a child died. She was mine. She was yours. She had a long brown ponytail and large brown eyes. She had just turned 7, the same age as the innocent girl sleeping in my upstairs bedroom. Her name was Jakelin. She was created from the clay of a Guatemalan landscape and died in an American jail, her desperate and helpless father standing by. Crossing nations and continents for the promise of a life free from violence, I can’t... Read more