I was seven years old. In first grade.
When I got to my humble home. It wasn't as quiet as it should have been.
There were a lot of faces I remember and more faces I think I should have remembered. They were all looking at me and my older sister.
She was crying.
I had never seen her cry like that before. We never fought my sister and I. So, it made no sense that she would cry like that needing two women to hold her.
I saw my uncles, neighbors, older cousins, old men and a lot of women. They were all talking about this or the other and every once in a while they would talk to me really slow and shake my hand
I have a list of people I didn't see. My step siblings, three of them, and my father. Why weren't they there?
Of course they couldn't. It took me a couple of years before I realized I had step siblings. All I had ever known was my older sister, younger brother and our last born sister.
That day is not the best to put on paper.
I remember crying. Being passed over from one woman to the next. Crying some more and seeing my mother and sister cry their tears, veins, nostrils and hearts dry.
My father was dead.
He was found hanging in our sitting area. Suicide. It hurt!