Thousands took part in a candlelight vigil on June 18 at the Minnesota State Capitol to honor the service and memory of Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark, who were killed in what officials have called a targeted act of political violence. (Aaron Lavinsky/The Minnesota Star Tribune)

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We gathered on the Minnesota State Capitol steps because there were no words left.

Not for the grief. Not for the injustice. Not for the silence that wrapped around Minnesota this week and refused to be ignored. It was a silence that said everything, a silence that stretched beyond the crowd, beyond the candles, beyond the boundaries of the city. It moved through us like a wave and echoed into all corners of our state.

Hundreds came. Teachers. Elders. Students. Families. And leaders: the governor, the first lady, the attorney general, state legislators and members of Congress. People showed up who are used to having their words recorded, debated and dissected. But in this moment, none of us were speaking. We were listening. Watching. Mourning.

Minnesota House Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman, DFL-Brooklyn Park, and her husband, Mark, are gone. And we had come to bear witness.

There is something sacred about gathering like this. In a time when so much of public life feels loud and cruel and performative, the stillness of a vigil feels radical. It is one of the few spaces left where grief is allowed to be both public and personal. Where we do not scroll past heartbreak or reframe it to fit a narrative. We simply sit with it. Together.

And yet, the vigil was not just about loss. At least not for me. As I looked out at the rows of quiet faces, at the flickering lights held up by children and grandparents and neighbors and colleagues, I felt something else.

It was not closure.

It was inheritance.

Because when people gather to mourn those who served, they are not just expressing sorrow. They are acknowledging that something must be carried forward. The vigil was not the end of a story. It was the handing off of something fragile. Something costly. Something that should never have required martyrdom, but now does.

That is the part we do not always say out loud. Hortman should not have had to give her life to be remembered. Neither should have her husband. Neither should any public servant. But this is the America we are living in. One where violence finds its way to doorsteps. One where decency is no longer a protection.

And in that America, those of us who remain are asked to do more than cry. We are asked to continue.

That is what I kept thinking as the vigil unfolded. That grief is not the end of the work. It is the beginning of responsibility. It is the recognition that if we are moved by what someone stood for, we must now decide what we will stand for too.

In the crowd there were no signs. No speeches. Just candles. That decision, to show up with light instead of slogans, spoke volumes. Because there are moments in a democracy when the most powerful thing you can do, is to refuse to let darkness go unanswered.

We are taught that democracy is about voting. And it is. But it is also about mourning together. About standing up for one another when it would be easier to look away. About saying the names of those who gave everything, not just because they died, but because of how they lived.

Hortman believed in what government could be at its best. She believed that leadership meant action, not performance. That governing meant delivering for working people, not grandstanding for cable news. That dignity still belonged in public service.

And that is what makes this moment so hard. We lost someone who made people believe the system could still work. We lost a voice of reason. A voice of strength. A voice that knew when to speak and when to listen.

And now, all of us who lit a candle in her name are left with a question: What do we do with what she left behind?

That is what it means to witness. Not just to observe tragedy, but to absorb its truth. To carry its memory forward in what we build, protect and choose to stand for.

Two days ago, the Hortmans’ children released a statement filled with grief, yes, but also with extraordinary grace. They thanked law enforcement, honored the heroism of those who tried to save their parents, and reminded us what it means to live with love and intention. They asked that we remember their parents not only through tears, but through action.

Plant a tree. Bake something and share it. Visit a park. Pet a dog. Tell a cheesy joke. Try a new hobby. Stand up for what is right. Live with hope and resilience.

That is what remembrance looks like. Not just reflection, but response.

To carry forward what Hortman and her husband stood for.

To meet grief with purpose.

To let our silence speak louder than hate.

We may not have all the answers, but we leave the vigil changed.

And we are still listening for what comes next.

Haley Taylor Schlitz is an attorney, writer and former public school teacher based in St. Paul.