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November 19, 1989.
That's the day my cousin Tony died. Even though an entire ocean separated us, we were closer than close. He was my favorite person in the world.
Then on 11/19/89 my Gramma called. She refused to talk to me which in itself is odd because I'm her favorite grandchild. And she asked to talk to my dad. Which is even odder since she's my maternal grandmother. I KNEW something was terribly wrong. But when I asked her she denied it. (I was only about 15 at the time.)
My family was in the middle of a move to a new house, so it took a few hours before my gramma could speak to my dad.
He hung up the phone, a look of horror on his face. My mom asked, "It's my brother, isn't it?"
Dad: "Little Tony died."
I froze. I stared at the stack of old newspapers beside the chair I was in. Then I calmly got up, went to the bathroom, locked the door, and went hysterical.
Even now, thinking back on that Sunday, I am crying. Tony didn't commit suicide. He had an asthma attack followed by a heart attack. He was only 17. His death was one of the worst things I have ever gone through. And I thank my friends, because if it weren't for them, I would have joined my cousin the day after I found out about his death.
posted by
Jemmie211
on March 20, 2003 at 11:53 AM
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