Berklee College of Music
Prologue (Part 1)
You think that one day you would be able to talk about what happened to your mother (or father) when they died. Whether you're young or old, either way, it's hard. Whether they died from murder or a car crash or natural causes. But, it never is easy. I picked up the phone when I got home from Elementary School to hear the voice mall of a Cop telling me my mother was shot and they needed someone of legal age to identify the body. I just thought, 'Why couldn't they just look at her license?'
Someone stole her wallet after they shot her. And since we are the only family that had a different colored skin tone in the area, they automatically called us. I called my grandmother, who was at work at the time, and told her what happened. She left work immediately and came to pick up me and my brother, who just got home a few minutes from Middle School before GranGran pulled up. I was in shock as I sat in the Police Station. I remember my brother holding my hand and telling me everything was going to be alright. I never cried, from what my brother told me. My grandmother came out crying, holding my mother's possessions in a bag.
My grandmother took us home and sat with us on the couch, telling us about death. How it was unfair at times, but that everything happens for a reason. I still didn't cry. I don't remember crying ever since my mother died. Not when my dad came back home for the funeral, not at the funeral, not when my grandmother went up to speak and called me up to accept my mothers necklace, not even when my grandmother died on my birthday when I turned 16. You would think I would have cried by now. Seeing my brother cry didn't trigger it, seeing my brother about to move away to a college in another state didn't trigger it. Starting my third year of high school with two jobs, no car, and a one bedroom apartment that I had to share with my brother, I still didn't cry. When I graduated high school a year early, with my brother who graduated on time – I still didn't cry. Not happy nor sad tears. Our father couldn't even make it to our graduation because of an assignment the Marines had him do.
Than started college. I got accepted into an Ivy League Music college, Berklee College of Music in Boston while my brother got a full football scholarship to University of Florida in Gainesville. At the beginning of the summer we put our apartment up for sale and got a deal in early August, just in time for us to leave and get our dorms set up. We split the money in half and went our separate ways. I thought it would have been more emotional when I left. My brother didn't cry, I didn't cry. We drove in a taxi together to the Airport and said our goodbye and went different ways. I text him once and a while to see how he's doing, he replied only a few times than stopped replying at all at the end of summer.
I don't know whether to be sad about that or not. My brother and I were very close when we lived together. On nights that I had nightmares about seeing mom's body in the coffin he would sleep in my bed and hold me. On days he got into fights at school, I'd take care of his wounds. He was my best friend. I thought I was his too…guess not.