Spring, obviously, had sprung Sunday afternoon in a huge way. The greenway strollers and the dog walkers, the leisurely lunch and early-dinner crowd clogged sidewalk tables of downtown eateries. Being that it was a Sunday, the usual day of rest, it was a marvelous thing â especially for merchants and restaurateurs starved to near extinction by COVID. A few hundred yards away, in Winston Square Park amphitheater near a photographic display of the smiling citizenry, something other than pollen was in the air, however. At the urging of activists disgusted by an unchecked spate of violence, three mothers who had lost sons to guns were preparing to speak. They were willing to lend their voices â and share the pain of their most desperate days burying young men that theyâd brought into this earth â to try and do something, anything, to move an implacable needle.