“Mom, why would you wake me up?” I lied. “Just tell him I’ll call tomorrow, I’m too tired to get up.” Another lie.

Four hours later, my mom wakes me again, except this time it’s from her screeching in the next room. I sit up in bed, contemplating whether or not I should open my door; I consider the piercing noise her laugh, but the more I listen, the clearer the cries become. After waiting five minutes for some explanation, my sister sleeping on the bed beside me rises as well. We glance at each other for the comfort neither of us can give.

My cousin and uncle suddenly, but slowly, open the door; they each begin to tell us how my dad had a heart attack while mowing the lawn around 3PM and died instantly. Panic, confusion, disbelief; tears scatter down my face, racing behind one another, too quickly for me to realize how rapid my ambiance has changed. I gradually walk over to the next room and see sharp motions of family members crying; my mom seated on the floor shouting why, why, why.

That afternoon, I impatiently sat on the balcony, unaccompanied, as I watched a plane fly across the horizon. I wondered if he were a passenger on that plane-or conceivably treated like luggage. His body was being sent over to Lebanon, where my family and I were on vacation; he had stayed home with my oldest brother to finish college work. His body would be properly cleaned and clothed, laid out for the open-casket funeral, and later buried in his hometown cemetery. If only he came with us, would his death be deferred?

The next day I fell asleep by my brother in an empty house my uncle owned that was big enough to hold the guests for the service. Given that I spent my entire night restlessly crying, I woke up the next day hours into the ceremony. Since I didn’t know what to prepare myself for, I blindly walked into the family room where a flood of women were assembled on the floor, waiting their turn to take a peek. As if it mattered-what good was a soulless body?

One by one, they began lifting their heads, staring as if I were some lost puppy. The women closest to me began a path that led to my mother and a coffin. She took me into her arms and sat me on her lap. As I cautiously turned my eyes, I reminisced of all the times my dad smiled; each hug and lift that filled my stomach with butterflies and ached his back with pain, every second of reassurance that his love was pure, all of the warmth he radiated for the sake of seeing me genuinely blissful, it was all departing my memory.

Pale, cold, but fresh; all these projections were popping up in my head, and they astonished me. I was used to seeing my dad with tan skin, a warm appearance, and a smile; to my surprise, there on his quiescent face, laid his handsome smile. Not the usual teeth-showing smirk, but a slight grin. This beam of compassion would last me years of satisfaction.

Fast-forward 51 weeks later.

June first hits and suddenly my nightmare from last summer has become reality once more. I’m led into an unfamiliar setting; a sharp, untainted scent consumes my lungs, my shoes squeal as they slide against the icy, sterile floor, and my eyes begin to water as I see a swollen, striking body lying on a thin bed.

“He can’t speak, or see, but he can hear you.” Utter disbelief.

“Amin.” I warily hesitate. “I love you.”

One week later, my aunt puts me in the car and tells me we are going home to see my mom, and I know why. I’m sitting in the backseat anxiously waiting for my aunt to find a parking spot; my entire street is filled with cars. I walk inside through my colossal doors, completely ignoring the hundred wary guests. Through the opening between the aisle-way, I make out my mom seated on a couch amongst all the other distraught faces consumed in black. She sends me a malcontent look across the room; I’m drawn to her displeasure. Each step I take towards her confiscates the sorrow she’s built up these past seven days. As she captures me in her arms, once again, the painful reasoning seems customary. My mother gently turns me around, and says, “Your brother died today, at 3 o’clock.”