Hearing the agonizing cry of my mother is the worst way to wake up. My eyes flutter open, confusion setting on my face. I hold my breath, listening intently to my surroundings. Another cry echoes in the house. I rip the blanket off my body, jolting out of bed, and rush out of my room. Although my mother's room is a few feet away, time seems to stop, and her room feels miles away. I roughly push the door open, and halt in the middle of the doorway, staring at the scene before me. My mother is sitting up on her bed, hands over her face, as she hysterically cries.
I walk over to her, touching her shoulder, and whisper, “Ma, what happened?"

Panic rushes over me and horrible ideas pop in my head. Her diabetes is worse. My dad has cancer, he’s dying. My grandparents died.

A few seconds of worrying, my mother finally hiccups out the four words no sibling wants to hear, "Your brother got killed."

In that moment, the world stopped. Time once again stood still as I tried wrapping my head around those four words. Nothing's making sense. I can't hear anything, and I'm staring at my mother, but it's as if I'm looking past her. I'm drowning in my thoughts.

One of my mother's cries wakes me from my daze, and I realize I'm now sitting on her bed, tears streaming down my face. The same four words keep repeating in my head with my mother's voice. That is when her words finally set in. My brother is dead. The feeling I gather in my stomach is so unbearable. I wrap my arms around myself, as my cries mirror my mother's.

I have never experienced a death in my family. I never thought the first would be my brother. He was thirty five and still had a long life ahead of him. I was supposed to see him in a few months, in summer, for the first time in five years, and now, I'll never see him again.

Reality kicked in, and I looked at my mother, who was having a much harder time than me. I embrace her tightly, whispering phrases that we both don't believe, like "it's going to be okay," or "we'll get through this."

“There is nothing harder than losing a child.”

How could I give advice to her, when I don't even know what to do myself? The more I think these thoughts, the more frustrated I get with myself and my cries worsen.

I try to recollect myself, trying to be the strong one because someone has to be. Nothing helps though as memories of my brother and I pop in my head. When I turned 11, I went to El Salvador and celebrated there, and I got to see him. His hugs, his humor, his love for my mom and I. All that was going through my mind.

It seems my mother tries taking the role of the strong one because she gets up to get her phone and calls my aunt. That is when I glance at the clock and see it's 4:00am. I knew I was in for a long, terrible day. The worst part is, it wouldn't just be a terrible day, this would be a terrible who-knows-how-long couple of months, because I don't know how or when I will get past this.

1 year later

I glance at my phone, with one eye open, squinting as the bright light hits my face. March 31st, 2015. I sigh as my eyes close, remembering the tragic events. It feels like it was yesterday that I went to El Salvador. The people surrounding my mom and I in the cemetery, with everyone in black, in tears. Seeing the open casket of my beloved brother, and realizing that was the first time in five years and the last time ever I'd see him.

My train of thought gets cut off as the door to my room creaks open. I glance at the door and see my mother walk in. She sits on the side of the bed, and we stay there in silence, fully aware of what day it is.

I faintly touch her shoulder and ask, "You okay?"

My mother looks at me, smiles slightly as she nods her head, her eyes glossy. I smile reassuringly at her and sit up. We hug each other, comforting one another in a way we both know how: embracing in silence. My mother and I both know we have each other. As long as we're together, I know she'll be okay, and so will I. We can both finally believe the advice I gave her a year ago: everything is going to be okay.