When you are a six-year-old boy dressed up in a suit with your hair all combed, you are bound to be a little uncomfortable. When your parents won’t stop crying and you can’t figure out where your big brother went, it’s normal to be confused.

Your sister hasn’t bothered with her makeup this morning. She is wearing the black dress she bought for the choir concert, and tears are rolling down her face. Your father stares straight ahead as you drive along with the rest of the black cars. His eyes never move, except to blink when they start watering again. Your mother leans on his shoulder and starts a new round of tears every few minutes.

When you arrive, you are bombarded by people in dark colors, crying, comforting, talking. You hear words thrown around, big words. Memorial. Sympathy. Tragedy. Funeral.

And when you climb out of the car and look into the eyes of your mother and ask where your brother is gone, she will tell you he’s in a better place.

That’s when you start wondering how to join him.