I parsed the judges words. Trying to sort out meaningless legalise from the important words. The words I, as a novice, would understand. Murder. Second degree. GUILTY. I pumped my fist and then the tears came, I didn't hear the later charges.

The tears that were of both sadness and relief.
The tears un-cried because there was just too much anger, too much disbelief in what my eyes were seeing happen on camera.
The tears over the fact that this was a surprise, that even with video, that video, it was still not a sure thing.
Tears about what could have been if even that video wasn't enough to hold someone accountable.
Tears for Mr. Floyd's family.
Tears for the community, those who lost a neighbor, those who saw the police occupy their neighborhood to "protect them" like they had "protected" Mr. Floyd.
Tears for the witnesses, both for what they were had to watch and the bravery they showed that day and on the witness stand.
Tears for their descriptions of the second guessing, the blame, the thoughts that they could have, and should have done, more.
Tears because they did nothing wrong.
Tears for the black women, who we need to be reminded to #SayTheirNames.
Tears for the other names that haven't trended.
Tears over the cruelty.
Tears over the just utter, gutting, sociopathic cruelty.
Tears over his fucking hands in his fucking pockets.
Tears for Mr. Floyd's 6-year-old daughter's words as she looked out over the protests, the people gathering to say her daddy's life mattered, "Daddy changed the world!"
He absolutely did, but now it's our elected officials' turn, our turn, my turn to keep that change moving.