My Priest told me during mass that faith is like the wind. You cannot see it, but you can feel it. He said you cannot capture it in a box, that wind needs to remain moving and trying to box your faith will kill it. The cliché discussion almost made me vomit, but it made me think of how wrong he was. But of course, everyone else nodded in agreement. It’s like dogs surround me, obeying everything their master says. I’m sorry, but I don’t do that. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of faith and the practices, but I can’t get myself to fully partake. The idea of agreeing to someone without any thought is lost on me. Either way, I sat in the church bench, arms crossed and head bowed; pretending to pray when in reality I just stared at my paint splattered Nike’s. I looked at the design, created from lasts year’s mission trip and smiled at the thought. I had experienced faith going out and working in the blistering heat. My faith might not have been in a god, but it was definitely in people. How could the priest say you can’t box up your faith, when I have my faith stored in memories? I snapped out of my thoughts as my mom yanked me out of my seat and threw a bible into my hands. Joy.

A week had passed and I lay in bed; my batman footsies covering my body and the sound of a crackling five-dollar Target candle filled the air. I would stay like this forever, avoiding social interaction and wearing awesome pajamas. But every Saturday my dad insists I get out of bed so I don't “waste the day away.” Although I have had countless arguments about the topic of ‘time is not wasted when doing something you love,’ my dad always counters with sleep was not a love, but a necessity. Nevertheless, like clockwork, I could hear his heavy footsteps come up the stairs. I quickly blew out the candle and pretended to sleep, awkwardly sprawling my body out among the sheets.

“Rachel, wake up!” My dad loudly whispers, his voice loud in comparison to the quiet I experienced earlier. His always does that, whisper. I hate it. He could just speak normally. We could be home alone in the middle of the day, and he would still whisper. I don't understand.
“Dad, stop whispering. And it’s Saturday. Just let me sleep,” I groan, rolling over so I could bury my face in the pillow. The ceiling light clicked on, illuminating my room. I moaned again, and rolled on my side to glare at my father. His sweater vest and cowboy combination killed me, but he only gave a weary smile, different than his usual toothy grin. He then left, keeping my door open so I was exposed to the noise from downstairs.

“Dang it.” I mumble. I rub my eyes and roll off the bed and onto the floor, so I could crawl to the door.

The kitchen is always bright in the morning. The windows faced the east, allowing rays of morning sun to spill through. I squint to make it to the fridge, my lack of glasses not helping the situation. My mom is sitting at the table cutting out coupons for Kroger, dead silent. Her back is straight against the chair, and her arms are robotic in nature as they cut. I scrunch up my nose in confusion and narrow my eyes. My mom is the most casual person in the world, her behavior this morning is not only strange, but foreign to anything I have ever seen. It’s too early for this. I pinch the bridge of my nose to relax and open the door, searching the fridge for any edible content. My house is always stocked with food, hence the Kroger coupons, but that doesn't mean I like the food. I scan over the fruit and lunchmeat and then the yogurts. Nope, nothing. I close the fridge and make my way to the coffeemaker.

I drink coffee because it allows me to feel intelligent. When sipping the bitter taste, I am able to act like an adult. I always felt young for my age, but drinking coffee makes up for the lack of maturity. I turn the machine on, the smell of coffee grounds immediately fill my nose. I lean on the counter, my back hitting the corner of the kitchen island. I decide to stare at my mom. There she goes, snipping away. I noticeably clear my throat and wait for her to turn around.

“Ahem,” my throat clears dramatically and I knew she wouldn't be able to ignore it. My eyes grew large in impatience. I tap my fingers on the counter, my nails clank across the granite. I should really cut these bad boys, long nails are disgusting.

“Yes, Rachel?” my mom states, a hint of ice in her voice. Weird.

“Anything wrong Mom? You’re acting odd today,” I answer honestly, seeing she’s not in mood to mess with. I divert my eyes from her and look down at my feet, fearing her response. I immediately thought I had done something wrong, but it seemed worse than that. I curl my toes, and feel the smooth wooden floor underneath them. Who am I kidding? I probably did something.

“Honey, something has happened,” she sighs, her shoulders slumping down and her eyes softening. I try to stay calm; already relaxing a little knowing it was no longer about me. If it were, her direct nature would have called me out on it already. Slowly, I grab my cup of freshly brewed coffee, bring it to my lips, and blew to cool it down. My mom stares at me, waiting for a response. I’m really uncomfortable in these situations, so I just raised one eyebrow to encourage her to continue. She’s silent for a few seconds; her eyes wander to her hands, which still grasp the scissors. Placing them down, she organizes the stacks of coupons into neat pile. I know what she’s doing; she is distracting herself, but eventually she clears her throat. She tucks her dyed blonde hair behind her ear and looks me in the eye.
“Your grandfather… He died last night.”

Through Michigan, a quick stop in Indiana, passing by Illinois, and to Wisconsin, we finally parked in the driveway. We had driven ten hours to come to my grandparent’s condo, or well, my grandma’s condo now. The grass was longer then it should have been and other cars filled the quiet street. The sun had set already, leaving the sky black and no fireflies to shine in the darkness. I used to catch the bugs with my Grandpa when I was younger, but I guess they are gone too.

I slowly moved out of the vehicle, carefully grabbing my bags so they wouldn’t fall out onto the cement. My bare feet touch the rough ground, and start to walk towards the lit house. My parents were silent, and I didn’t really feel like talking. They had sprung the death of my grandfather onto me, and given me an hour to pack before we left. I haven’t really had time to process that he was gone. It just felt like a spontaneous visit. That I would walk through the screen door, and he would be sitting at the kitchen table like he always is, playing poker and drinking watered down coffee.

I pushed open the door, the rust on the handle dusted my hand and I wiped it on my jeans. The entrance room was filled with shoes, both small and big, and I put my Nike’s next to them. I could hear my parents behind me; I kept walking. The car ride had been silent. I liked the silence, and I planned on keeping it for as long as I could.

The silence denied my affection, because the minute I walked into the kitchen, people were talking and music was playing. I was really hoping they would be quiet and mournful, but my relatives seemed to be throwing a party. I forced a smile on my face and walked over to my grandmother who was obviously intoxicated, her sweater was stained and her movements were clumsy.

“Hey Grandma,” I said loud enough for her to hear. She turned away from the snacks on the counter and faced me, her eyes big underneath her rimmed lenses.

“Rachel!” My grandma runs up to me, and wraps her arms around me. I stand a good four inches above her, but she always manages to be stronger than me. Her bony arms squeeze me until I can’t breathe, and I pat her back to try to make her let me go. My efforts are useless.
“Oh, I have missed you so much! And look how tall you are! Did you dye your hair? It looks brown.”

“That’s because it is brown, Grandma. I missed you too.” I take the opportunity to slither out of her grasp, and look into her eyes. She sounds happy, and looks happy, but her eyes are cloudy and blood shot. It might have been because of the alcohol, but I could tell she had been crying.

She rubs my back in a circular motion, and gives me a broken smile.

“You are so beautiful, I wish Bob could see you.” Her eyes are starting to leak. Crap, please don’t cry. It’s fine, don’t worry, I’m ugly, Grandpa didn’t need to see me. He would have gone blind. My mind raced in panic, but I stayed motionless. I opened my mouth to say something, but it ended up just hanging there like I was dog waiting to be feed.

“Mary Ellen,” a voice interrupts my grandma and I. The interruption gave me the opportunity to slip away and head down to the basement to put my bags in the spare bedroom.

By the time I unpacked and changed into more appropriate party clothes, jeans and a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt (perfect for these cheese head lovers), the party had died down, but Grandma was still in full swing.

She had moved onto the Jell-O shots, god only knows how much alcohol is in those things. Why was no one stopping this woman? I mean she’s strong, but she can’t be that hard to control. I squeeze past my step cousins and the awkward uncles that I have only met once in my life. I could see my parents sitting in the corner of the room, sharing a love seat. They usually didn’t spend much time together out of mutual hate, but I guess death brings people closer together. Avoiding them, I turn the opposite direction only to be pulled back by a shaky hand.
The drunken grandma has returned.

“Honey! There you areeeeeee!” My grandma slurs her words and leans her entire body weight against mine.

“Grandma, how much have you been drinking?” I honestly am concerned with this woman’s health. I’ve never seen her drink in my entire life, and tonight she’s chugging like there is no tomorrow.

“One!”

“One what Grandma?” I’m getting annoyed. I grab her chin and try to make her look into my eyes. Her head becomes heavy in my hand, and I struggle to keep her face up.

“Grandma, you need to stop. Drinking this much is not good for you.” I try to keep my voice stern, but I’m growing weak with impatience.
“I… I… I can’t do this,” is muffled out of her mouth, followed by a quiet sob. No, no, no, no, no! No tears. God, please no tears.

God was not on my side today. My grandmother breaks out into a full on sob, gripping onto my sweatshirt for support. Okay, I have to act mature. I can handle this.

“I’m taking you to bed, okay?” I start to move towards her bedroom, not bothering to hear her response. I walk past relatives, but no one seems to notice me. The party has died down. No longer are people eating and socializing, instead they remain in their own section of the room, deep in their own thoughts.

I push open her bedroom door, and struggle to get her to the bed. Somehow, she managed to fall half asleep on the walk over her.
“Come on, Grandma. Help me out,” I grumbled, trying to readjust so I can steady myself. She lets out an undecipherable noise. I’ll take that as a no.

Finally, I manage to lay her down on the bed. The second her head hits the pillow, her eyes close and she falls asleep. I quietly walked to the door, and placed my finger over the light switch. I let my eyes gaze around the room. Pills still littered the cabinet counters and an oxygen machine was on the opposite side of the bed of my Grandma. I know he only died two days ago, but for some reason, I feel like this stuff should be gone. I focus my gaze back on my grandma, her breathing is even and she subconsciously hugged the pillow neighboring her. Keeping evidence of his death in her room will not help her cope, if anything, it will kill her too.

I shiver at the thought and quickly turn off the light. Closing the door behind me, I turn around to face the hallway. I jump when I come face to face with not only my parents, but my cousins and uncles and aunts as well.

“Uhh… hi?” I answer, my voice a few octaves higher than usual. I scratch the back of my head and try to calm down; I’m not good with crowds, especially when they’re filled with my family.

“How is she?” my cousin Megan speaks, her dark skin a drastic contrast from the rest of my cousins. Megan was adopted, and never failed to be the loudest in the room.

“What?” I stutter confused.

“How is Mary Ellen?” My dad decides to chime in. They all look at me like lost puppies, eyes filled concern, but their bodies stay motionless. I’m not the type to get angry, but I’ve had enough tonight. How dare they ask me how she is, when it’s obvious they did nothing to help her.
“How is she? Really, you think you can let her run wild all night, and now you think you can ask me, her GRANDDAUGHTER, how she is,” my voice is nearly a shout, but I’m trying to stay quiet for Grandma.

“Rachel, we know you spent time with her-”

“Dad, just stop,” I interrupt him, putting my hand up. He immediately quiets, and I let out a loud sigh.

“I’m going to bed, we have a funeral in the morning. I suggest you all do the same,” I squeeze past the numerous relatives, and push my dad to the side. I know I’m acting immature, I’m not stupid. But, I can’t help it. If they are going to rely on a seventeen year old for help, I have a right to be upset.

I immediately jump in the bed and pull the covers over my body. I think my parents are smart enough to not come in, but who knows about those cousins. I lay on my side, facing away from the door, hoping no one would come in. The past twenty-four hours play in my head and I close my eyes in order to relax. I can feel the day begin to slip away, the memories fading into dreams and the dreams into rest.
I’m almost completely asleep, when the door creaks open and the lights flash. I’m brought back to earlier this morning when my dad woke me up in the same way.

“Dad, go away. I don’t want to talk to you!” My voice is traced with sleep, content with my yell; I close my eyes again, hoping he’d go away.
“It's not Jeff… It’s Megan.”

My eyes shoot open and I immediately sit up. Rubbing my eyes, I turn to face her. She has changed into her pajamas, her feet covered by fluffy slippers, her cross tattoo visible on her ankle.

“Can I come in?” She rubs her upper arm as she waits for my answer. I really do not want to talk to her, but I have to. She is family after all.

“Sure?”

She doesn't hesitate after I answer, and sits on the bed. I try to distance myself from her, but the bed is too small, another inch and I’ll fall off. I tuck a piece of my red hair behind my ear and wait for her to respond.

“I know you’re upset.” She pauses and stares at her hands, debating what to say next. “But everyone is having a difficult time dealing with Grandpa’s death.”

She stops talking and I’m thankful for the silence. I wish I could go back to bed and not have to deal with this, I love talking, but not about serious things. I twist my hair between my fingers and try to think of something to say.

“Listen Meg, I know everyone is upset, but people are acting weird. Grandma drank her body weight in alcohol, and everyone was partying when I got here! What’s with that?” I sigh, trying to release all my stress. Megan makes eye contact with me and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Pray.”

“What?” I think that came out harsher than it should of, but I’m surprised by her suggestion.

“You should pray,” she smiles and let’s go of my hand. I can feel the warmth she was giving my hand leave as she approached the door.
“Meg, I know you are really religious but—”

“Just try it, okay? Grandpa is with God now, so maybe praying will help.”

I am in no mood to argue, so I just nod and let her leave the room, turning the light out on her way out. I let myself fall back into bed, staring at the ceiling. Was I even recognizing that my Grandfather was dead? I haven’t cried since I was told the news, and really haven’t acted different since finding out. I never cry though, so maybe I’m incapable of crying over his death.

And why should I pray? My parent’s prayed for months for my Grandpa to get better and he still died. Heck, I even prayed and it did nothing. Tomorrow he is going to be six feet under the ground and no amount of praying will fix that. Maybe Megan thinks praying will help her cope with his death, but that’s not how Grandma was dealing with it. She was drinking and partying away to cope with death, and where did that get her? Passed out during the middle of a family gathering. And my parents, they basically just crawled into their shell and stopped talking to me. How is avoiding your only daughter a good way to deal with death? I had no idea, but I guess my parents were leaning on each other. They usually are never nice to one another or spend this much time together. Is that their form of coping?

Too many thoughts are dancing in my head to think straight. I pinch the bridge of my nose to try to relax, but nothing works. I just need to sleep, and get coffee in the morning. Everything will be okay. Letting out a sigh, I close my eyes and shut out the world.

It wasn’t the mass, it wasn’t the eulogy, and it wasn’t his coffin being buried into the ground. It was the twenty-one gun salute. That darn twenty-one gun salute sent me over the edge. I could feel my breath shorten as tears fell down my face, violently hitting me in the heart, allowing me to feel grief for the first time. He was gone and it was real to me. I would no longer play golf with him, we would no longer discuss the past and the future, and I would no longer get to call him on my birthday or on Christmas.

I looked around the cemetery and witnessed others break down as well. My parents held on to each other, and I saw my dad weeping in front of me for the first time in my life. Everyone was crying in their own way. Megan held her cross; my grandma held a flask and my parents held each other. I looked down at my hands and realized I held nothing. I had no means to help me deal with this loss.

I looked to the sky and wondered whether Megan was right, if there was a god up there looking down at us, planning our lives and helping us through the day. A breeze caused the leaves to shake and I remembered how not a week ago my priest told me faith was like the wind, that it is all around us, unwilling to be boxed up. I knew he was wrong the day he said it, and today was no exception.

I took all my memories of my grandfather and I boxed them away. I put them into the box the priest said I couldn’t have, and I held onto it. This is how I will cope. Not by drinking, or god, or someone else. I will deal with it how I’m supposed to. By holding onto to who he was, by packing him into a memory, and storing him away.