I was 15, and laying in my bed when I heard my mom screaming. It was a weekend morning. Her scream was intimidating and confusing. I didn't understand why she could be crying like she was, the possibilities were daunting. After 30 minutes of trying to control herself, she came into my room and broke the news, My cousin had died an unexpected and early death and, he had died by suicide.

Anthony was my mother’s best friend growing up – he was two years older and always wearing a smile. In our family, we all knew he was a kind soul who you knew you could always count on. He was someone I wanted to be like – confident, loved, and was always smiling and cracking jokes. I only typically saw Anthony once a year, but still I thought he was the coolest. When I did see him, my mom did most of the talking, while I hid behind her like any other outing, watching him brighten everyone’s days. He didn't have to hide behind anyone and he was confidently himself and making everyone happy just like I always wished I could.

I knew he was a selflessly generous man. I can't recall a single time he denied helping us. He would help with any handy work you needed. He would help my family with any kind of contracting work. Even if he couldn’t help with your specific problem he always knew a guy. Everyone who met him loved him. My mom would always call to him for help and he never let her down. What I didn't know would end up being the most impactful. He was the type of person you wouldn't consider checking up on, he was always making everyone laugh and he had such a playful attitude, and never looked to be suffering. I always saw Anthony as someone who was effortlessly cool and even though I had a minimal connection with him, I still looked up to him sort of like an uncle and an idol.

Less than a week later I was at the funeral. It was an incredibly depressing place, everyone was sobbing and seemed to have an unhealthy fixation on what they could have done. I can’t remember the last time I cried, but for the first time since I must have been a child I publicly broke down and couldn't control it. Arriving at the casket and seeing his lifeless body hurt; seeing my mom and family crying as they were, made it hurt much more. Seeing my mother break down made me sob like I never had before. I was embarrassed. I felt terrible for how bad I was crying. His own mother and father were not crying as hard as me. My mother hugging me made it much worse. I didn't want the attention to be taken away from the closest family who were truly grieving, but I couldn't control myself. My uncle, his father hugged me and my mother, consoling us and it helped a little, but I knew I couldn't begin to understand the consoling he would need. His parents who had always been the sweetest people, so supportive to their children. My mother who had grown up with him and had spent every summer with him. All these people had it much worse, yet I was crying the hardest. I didn’t understand why it hurt so bad, but it did.

Looking back, months later, I think I realize why. This was my first time really experiencing a close death and it was shocking. Death felt much more real and close to me after him and it ruined me knowing that one of the coolest people I knew to be a role model left in such a painful and unexpected way. But after the funeral I found that it was okay to cry and sometimes it feels good,  too. And, no matter what I was thinking at the moment, thinking back, I realized that the funeral  was a judgment-free area and it felt like a relief to open up in front of people and bond over someone important to us.

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