Descriptive Essay On My Cousin

My aunt and my cousin were among my favorite people growing up. My cousin’s nickname was Chubby, a paradoxical nickname, and I called my aunt Tía Sandra. It was rare for me to just call her by her name. They visited often throughout my childhood even though they lived across town. My cousin was a few years older than me and he would trash my room every time he came to visit. I never got mad because it was an odd ongoing joke between us. All the while, my aunt and mom would socialize in the living room. They often erupted in laughing fits that were only slightly muffled by the walls. However, ten years down the line, conversations gradually shifted from light-hearted talks to serious concerns about my cousin. He became quiet and careful, then

However, to this day, it still feels unreal. Almost like the fact that I don 't blame him directly invalidates her death. My aunt 's death was intentional and avoidable, and in her death, I lost my cousin too. I don 't know how to define him anymore. Is he still my cousin? Is he my aunt 's murderer? The fact that I cannot define him as both disturbs me. However, I realize this is the way I digested her gruesome death and my cousin’s crime. Not to mention, in her death I realized that grieving is much more complex than I had originally thought. I never could relate to the grieving stages because I felt it oversimplified the mourning process. Most of all, it left no room for regression. Looking back, I remember feeling guilty because I felt I was mourning my aunt incorrectly because I only cried for her after she was taken off of life support. Plus, I attended her funeral, but I did not visit the casket, and I did not attend her burial. I believed attending these viewings were the steps to saying goodbye. Yet , recently, I realized I regress in mourning and become, once again, disconnected from this loss as if it just happened. Thus, mourning is more complex than saying goodbye, it is a