The whole house smells of my grandma's cooking. Apple pie, barbeques, and mashed potatoes. I’m so hungry- I cannot wait to eat. I go on the computer to waste time as I wait for dinner to be done. As I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed, I hear my mom crying. I turn my music down to see what’s going on upstairs. I hear my grandma start laughing, and the dog start barking, they’re just playing with the dog. I turn my music back up and proceed scrolling through Facebook. After about five minutes, I hear her crying again- probably just messing with the dog again. I listen for awhile longer and then realize there is sadness in her sobs this time, she is not pretending. Immediately, my heart drops.

I hate hearing her cry like that. I go up the stairs slowly, listening to my grandma talk on the phone as my mother cries. As I reach the top of the stairs, I see my mom on the couch, she has curled herself up into a ball. Her face and eyes red and covered in tears.

Seeing her like that makes me begin to cry, too.
“What happened?” I ask with a shaky voice.
“my baby,” my mother cries. “My baby boy”
No, no, no, this can’t be. Not one of my brothers. I look to my grandma for answers, since my mom is not able to put a sentence together.
“Grandma,” I plead. “tell me what happened”

“Something about a skid steer falling on Tristen,” she tells me. “They don’t know if he’s going to make it, there’s a helicopter on it’s way to the farm to fly him to LaCrosse.”
No, not Tristen. My sweet, happy little brother. He can’t die, he’s too young.
My grandma ends the phone conversation, and begins taking dinner out of the oven.
“Come on!” she yells. “We have to go”
We put our shoes on and get in the car. My mother and I are both sobbing, worrying, hoping. My grandma remains calm as she drives us to Hillsburo. None of us say anything, our words are in our heads. He has to live through this, he’s only six.
This is the most painful car ride I’ve ever experienced. Time seems to have slowed down, and all I want is to get to the farm and see my father and brothers.

Finally, we have arrived.
My mom gets out of the car, and I follow her. As we walk towards the barn, most people won’t look at me. The ones who do tell me “I’m so sorry.”
Why are they saying that? My brother is just fine.
My mom walks up to my dad and asks “Where is he? Where is my baby?”
My dad is sitting on a picnic table, his face buried in his arms. He lifts his head, he is crying. I have never seen my father cry before.
“He died in my f***ing arms” he says and puts his head back into the nest he has made with his arms.
I don’t know what to think.
I cried so much on the way there, I can’t cry anymore. I’ve run out of tears.
My grandma and mom are going to look at Tristen in the back of the ambulance, they ask me if I want to come with.
I want to see my brother, but not like that. Part of me expects he is sitting there, smiling. Waiting for me to come hug him. But I know he’s not smiling, not sitting up, not alive. I tell them no, I don’t want to see him.
My baby brother is dead.

I rummage through my dresser, looking for black clothes to wear to the funeral. Anything I find, I have long outgrown. I hear a shout of frustration- Brody must be having the same problem. My father drives Brody and I to the store, and we pick out formal, black, sad clothes.
Dad has been different lately. He is quiet, always smoking dope, and won’t play music in the car.

We follow a long line of cars to the funeral, we are like a pack of ants.
When we arrive at the funeral home, I am disgusted by the scent. It smells of old people, candles, and grief.
One thing I didn’t know about funerals- the family stands in a line next to the coffin, and everyone comes and hugs you.
There are so many people here, this is going to take forever.
Everyone pities me, I don’t want them to pity me.
Everyone says sorry, it’s not their fault he’s gone.
Everyone says “if there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.” They can’t bring him back.
I feel overwhelmed. I need to be alone, I need to be outside.
I tell my grandma I’m not feeling well, so she takes me to sit down on a pew.

I watch my mother and father cry as people they have known forever hug them, give them their condolences.
I watch my little cousins run around the room, throwing things at each other. How can they be so happy? So ignorant? I know they are just children, but they were best friends with Tristen, why aren’t they sad?

I see a girl I go to school with standing at the coffin, looking at my brother. She didn’t know him, but she cries.
I have yet to look at him in his coffin, I don’t want to let go of the thought of him still being alive just yet.
I think about him, his bright blue eyes, his peanut shaped nose, his goofy smile.

I get up, and start walking towards him.

His skin isn’t the same olive color it use to be, it is now orange, and it appears as though they covered him with cheap makeup.
His face looks dented, not the shape it’s suppose to be.
It hits me.
He’s really gone.
I’ve lost my little brother for good.