“Kids, don’t come in,” read the note on the door of my uncle’s house.  My family travels to Virginia every year to visit all of my family on my dad’s side.  August 16, 2007, was the day my life changed. 

Rolling into my uncle’s yard with our 2008, red mini van, my siblings and I were excited to have a family barbeque with my Virginian family.  After sprinting to the door, Rj, my brother, noticed a yellow sticky note on the worn-down door.  As we stood on the rickety porch, we read the sticky note and decide not to go in.  Taylor, my sister, yelled, “Dad, hurry up from the car and come up to the house.” My dad sprinted up the freshly cut yard and went into the house.  As soon as he came out of the old house, his hands shielding his face, and we could tell he was crying.  His face turned colorless.  While on the porch, he went down to his knees and never moved his hands from blocking his face.  Taylor whispered softly in my ear, “I have to go to the bathroom.”  With my dad’s face still guarded by his hands, we pushed past him to go to the bathroom.

After we made our way in the house, my dad screamed, “My brother is dead!”  All of my siblings walked in and stopped.  Allan, my uncle, was lying on his bed holding a black gun with his arms crossed.  He wasn’t moving at all.  After I saw the gun, I looked at his face and started bawling uncontrollably.  Red and almost black blood dripped out of a hole right in the middle of his forehead.  I concealed my face, not wanting to face reality, thinking, How could this happen to him? Why did this happen? Was nobody there for him?   My stomach felt sick, and my heart felt empty and fearful.  We all ran back to the porch and found my dad still there on his knees.  Suddenly, he slowly stood up and cried, “I guess we better call the cops.”  The cops could barely understand him, as he was talking like the wind was knocked out of him.  The police didn’t arrive at the house for twenty minutes because of the mountainous areas.  After seeming like three hours, they finally arrived.  I knew I had to calm myself down because all of my younger siblings watching me, and I had to be strong.  It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry as much as he did; however, he calmed himself down after an hour or two. 
Why him? What would ever feel so bad that he couldn’t handle it? I know how strong he was, but I couldn’t believe it. What if it would have been his daughter or son who walked in to see him lying there dead?

After going to the funeral, we ended up staying in Virginia for about two more weeks, just to help console our family members.  It was such a surprise to everyone.  My dad told me he thought his brother had some crazy thoughts, and it led to him pulling the devastating trigger.  My aunt apologized for the sight us children saw, but we knew it was not her fault.  Allan was buried in the Addington Cemetery, along side many other relatives.  We still travel to Virginia every year at the exact same time, hoping nothing tragic happens again.  We walk around the cemetery, visiting each deceased relative; but we make sure to stop at Uncle Allan’s grave for a longer time.  My dad cries every time we go, who makes each trip more difficult. 

Sometimes I wish I would have followed the note and listened to my uncle.  He sure did mean it when he wrote, “Don’t come in.”  However, if I wouldn’t have gone in, I would not have believed my father and my siblings.  I would have thought they were pulling a big prank on me.  To this day, I still wish it were just a joke or a bad dream, but it’s not; it’s reality.