Acquainted

From a young age, I got acquainted with death and how to grieve.

It wasn’t as easy as a grandparent dying from old age or a family pet going to the ranch in the sky. How I wish it was that simple to learn about death in the easiest way possible.

Instead, it was me waking up with both my parents gone and a note on my dresser saying that they had left in the middle of the night.

It was me confused while my siblings laid on my bed with me. Both didn’t speak a word about what happened. They knew the events that led to my parents leaving, but I was too young to comprehend.

My missing parents resulted in them being at the hospital after an incident happened with their godson. My cousin on my mom’s side.

While I was sleeping that night, on the other side of town seven bullets were fired. God only knows who heard the echos in the cold air.

It wasn’t just death, it was murder.

I missed many school days to attend the court trial. Something unjust took place and my family needed each other to make sure his death wasn’t going unnoticed. There was strength in numbers those days.

It was me sitting next to my family looking at my cousin’s autopsy photos. There was no warning, my innocent eyes were not covered from the massacre that was displayed in the courtroom.

I remember sitting in the wooden pews. It reminded me of the Sunday masses at church. Just more mundane.

I remember going out to eat with my family after the trials. Being stuck in a courtroom for most of the day can make someone hungry. We always had to call ahead to allow the servers to push tables together. It should have been a happy occasion, maybe someone’s birthday. There was no singing and clapping. Only glances and nods. A small Mexican restaurant will never feel the same.

There I was, not knowing how to deal with death, but also having to deal with seeing the man who ruthlessly took a life. Listening to lawyers argue that the evil sitting in handcuffs was not to blame. Watching the jurors nod with every argument and counter-argument made.

My grief will last forever, but the man who broke my family apart will only have to deal with his actions for 10 years.

100 days later it was me seeing my mom fall to the floor when she was on the phone. Her cries echoed in our two-bedroom house.

It was me standing from the hallway, unsure of what to say. I just stood there watching her. Not listening to the words she spoke, only how she spoke them as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

I didn’t know what was happening. I just got home from school, still in my polo shirt and khaki pants. My mom couldn’t build up the courage to tell me at that moment. I just knew I wasn’t going to my piano lesson that evening.

Another cousin dead. Gunshot, but self-inflicted.

I was too young to understand the pain he was in to cause it. I was never told details.

There goes more days that I missed from school. Only spending time with family for days on end. I never spoke up about the questions that I had about my cousins. Afraid that my family would be more heartbroken from my inquires about their deaths.

They were buried right next to each other. It was my first time going to a funeral. I just stayed silent while the Priest led the mass.

Two funerals in four months.

A murder and a suicide.

I was only 10 years old.