January 24, 2015, is a date that lives inside my body. It is not just a day on a calendar—it is a wound that never fully closes. On that early morning, my son, Alejandro Rojas García, was shot and killed in a senseless act of gun violence in Philadelphia. He was a junior at Temple University, full of plans and promise. He was also a father, with two children who would grow up without him, left to know their dad only through memories, photographs, and the stories we cling to.
Brianna and Little Alex were still teenagers when their world was shattered. They lost their father before they were old enough to understand why violence keeps stealing the future from our children.
Eleven years have passed. People often assume that time softens grief, that it dulls the sharp edges of pain. But grief does not fade—it simply changes shape. It follows you like a quiet shadow, unnoticed until the light shifts. I still feel the pain. I still carry the weight of that morning in January, when my life split into a before and an after.
Yesterday, I went to the cemetery to visit my son’s grave. I drew a heart in the snow, placed his name in the center, and left my frozen handprint—a mother’s calling card to her child. My friend Mary came with me, and together we said an Our Father. The cold air pressed against my skin as I stood there, speaking words that had nowhere else to go.
I no longer hear his voice the way I used to. His smile, once so vivid, now appears through the expressions of his children. I recognize him in their gestures, their laughter, the quiet strength they carry. His life continues through them, even as his absence remains permanent.
I write today not only as a mother remembering her son, but as one voice among many in Philadelphia who have been devastated by gun violence. And although the city has seen a reduction in homicides in recent years, the pain of loss remains. How can one measure what it means to bury a child?
The pain stares back from:
- the empty chairs at family gatherings,
- the birthday cakes taken to the cemetery,
- the moments he never got to experience—his graduation from Temple, the Eagles’ Super Bowl win, the milestones yet to come,
- the lifetime of conversations we will never have.
Gun violence in Philadelphia—and across our nation—is not a storm that simply passes. It is a slow-burning fire that leaves families standing in ashes long after the headlines fade. It does not disappear on its own. It does not resolve on its own. And it does not stop hurting when the news cycle moves on.
To the mothers who have lost their children to gun violence: I see you. I walk beside you, even when our grief is silent. Our stories matter. Our children mattered. They were more than victims—they were students, parents, dreamers, friends, and loved ones.
Today, eleven years after my son Alex was taken from this world, I write his name so it will not be forgotten. I remember him for how he lived—and for the love that still binds us across time, distance, and loss.
