On this rather warm October day when we normally celebrated my father's birthday, we drove over the cracks of the broken road. The car pulled into the driveway of the old white house, where a man dressed in black stood. My father rolled down the window to speak with the man who told him to put the car in line with the other members of our family. Dad gently placed his hand on the equipment and pushed it into the playpen. My family slowly crawled out of the white doors of the van. As my heels clicked violently on the concrete floor, I felt the cool breeze chilling my spine and the warm sun shining on my face. My cheeks grew hot and my eyes watered as we walked toward the front of the house. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay I approached the inside of the frosted glass door that a dark-haired, pale-faced man opened for my family. As soon as I took my first step inside the door, the musky aroma wafted up to my nose. The first glimpse was of my extended family, whose tears flowed onto the pink carpets, forcing me to lose my composure. I started to cry as my mother pulled me towards her and pulled me closer. His arms surrounded and tightened my body like a belt. The top of my head became wet as she cried with me. We walked into the locker room together to hang up our black coats and get a glass of cold water to calm down. My father's brothers came into the room and talked with my mother. Unable to see them cry, I went to look for my cousin. I walked down to where the carpet changed from pink to navy blue, my eyes focused solely on the dark wooden coffin centered at the front of the room. A cold, glassy body lay inside. A 57 year old man with luscious black hair seemed to appear in a deep sleep from which no one could wake him, my father's father. A piece of me faded away and my heart felt hollow. The sobs and screams came out of nowhere. My knees were getting weak and I needed to rest. I sat on the 1950s floral sofa behind me. A blurry woman brought me a box of tissues and another glass of water. So muffled that the words “thank you” could never leave my mouth. The ceremony began, I sat down and looked at my mother's feet. I was embarrassed that I had cried so much, but I couldn't stop. The tears never ended. The old man stood up in front of the microphone and began: “We meet here on this October day…” When he finished, he invited my father to come and say a few words. My father approached with tears streaming from the tear ducts of his eyes. So choked up that it took him a minute or two to get the words out of his mouth. Between each word, he paused for a long second. Watching the man in front of me trying to talk about his own deceased father made me even more saddened. I heard myself crying and I knew that every ear in the room could hear me and that every eye when I sobbed was on me. My imagination played me. No one really looked at me. After my father sat down, the rows of people cleared as they stood to pay their respects to my grandfather. One by one, people moved their feet slowly, almost as if their feet were sticking to the ground. I was next, my eyes and heart couldn't even bear to look at him. I just moved forward. Guilt buried in my stomach. My family understood why I didn't,.