Every time my son leaves the house, I ask him where he's going and how long he'll be gone. I also take a good, long look at him as though it might be my last chance to see him alive.

Morbid, I know, but my son is 19 years old and black, and these days, teens who fit that particular demographic might as well wear targets on their backs.

It's the killing season for kids like him. Whether it's a trip to the mall or a joyride with friends, more and more they fall prey to bullets, often delivered at the hands of teens not much older -- and sometimes younger -- than he is.

Sometimes I ask him whether he knows the victims or suspects in the city's homicides. Much to my horror, the answer sometimes is "yes." Usually he explains he knew them in high school, or knows someone who knows them. Still, it gives me the willies to know how close to home these incidents have become.

This senseless loss of life needs to stop. Our young people are dying at an alarming rate and we seem powerless to do anything about it. But somehow we must.

Excuse me. My son is leaving, and I've got questions to ask.