Each of my siblings had a different way of dealing with the untimely passing of my father. My elder sister, Rose had been hysterically crying for three consecutive days. She was the one who was collecting the most pity, for she was the one who was openly showing her sorrow. Believe it or not, Rose was the one who was dealing with our father's demise the healthiest.
William, my nineteen year old brother, took a very different approach than Rose. He was furious. He tried desperately to hide this fact (mostly for me and his younger brother's benefit), but was without success. As I looked down at his hands, I saw his white knuckles, and balled up fists. I took note that whenever he glanced over at my dad's deceased body his deep, green eyes would light up with such fury and hatred that shivers ran down my spine, until they reached my toes, and gave them an unpleasant feeling that I didn't particularly care for. I felt for William. He and I were close. He was very protective of me, and I of him, although he didn't really know that. I alone knew the reason behind his fury. I alone knew him well enough to understand. Most people think I am an ignorant, naïve, little fourteen year old girl, I however, am not. I notice things. Little things. Things that others wouldn't give the time of day. Will was angry with my father. He was angry because he left him with the responsibility of taking care of us; he was the oldest boy, therefore, the man of the house. He hated it all. He had wanted to go to college; he couldn't now that he and Rose both had to find decent paying jobs, to support us.
My older brother Mark was almost seventeen, the closest to my age. I worried the most about Mark. Mark had no fire in his eyes. No, his baby blue eyes, so like our fathers, were dull and lifeless. Something that I, in all my years of knowing Mark (my whole life) had never witnessed. Mark was remarkably happy-go-lucky. Albeit shy, he was almost always smiling, or laughing, or delighting us with his dry, yet, amazingly witty, sense of humor. Now, however, Mark hadn't smiled, laughed, or said a single word since we heard the terrible news.
Hours past, days, weeks, months. There is nothing to tell of those days because, well, I hardly remember them. I vaguely remember the funeral. I hardly remember the huge argument Rose and William had. I don't even remember what it was about. I do, however, remember sitting on our staircase listening to William and Rose's shouted voices. I remember Mark sitting next to me with his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. He then spoke the first words he had said in weeks "It'll all be okay." he had said. His voice was hoarse and raspy. He told me this even though he looked a thousand times more shaken by this argument than I did. He told me this even though he was the one who hadn't spoken to a single soul in weeks. He told me this to comfort me, even though he was the one who needed comforting. He told me this because he loved me. He did it because although we weren't nearly as close as William and I, he was still my big brother, and I, his baby sister.