It was an average Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house. Grandma always invited everyone over, but if you did come, you’d be put to work either before or after we eat. Unless you bring some food. Anyways, everyone was here. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, it’s rare that we all get together like this. Usually when all of us are together like this, somebody ends up fighting. Guess that’s just a thing when black people get together.
Everything was going so well, everyone was eating, laughing, playing, watching football up until my big brother Jordan busted in. He was supposed to had gone and bought some plastic forks for the house since we didn’t have any left (My family is notorious with waiting until the last minute to get stuff). When his body finally decided to stop his constant huffing and puffing, we all realized he was crying.
“What’s wrong with you boy?” My uncle James asked. He was a man who looked really intimidating but on the inside he was just a man who had been more than I could ever understand.
“It’s DJ,” Jordan said with a pant. “He got shot and he’s on the way to the hospital. They say he may not make it. They said that and he hasn’t even made it to the damn hospital yet!” He began harder now.
Everyone on was completely silent. Only thing you could here was the T.V and the quiet hum from the ceiling fan. DJ had been Jordan’s best friend since elementary school. He was basically a family member since his family was always too strung out to be an actual family to him. But DJ was hardheaded, he always wanted to be on the street gang banging, shooting, thieving, robbing. Everyone knew about it. That’s why he wasn’t invited to Thanksgiving. Now I kind of wish he had been invited.
Later on that day, Jordan got the call. DJ was gone. It makes think how crazy life is. Even on the day of thanks. You can still can lose something, or someone, you’re thankful for.
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