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Sheltered Linzy Costella Being the youngest child in my family, I have always known that I was sheltered a bit more than the others. Growing up I was always placed at the “kids table” at holidays away from my older siblings, given the “earmuffs” at random times, or wasn’t allowed to watch certain movies that the older kids could. As I continued to grow up, I recognized that some of these things were valid. However, I also realized that the habit that was initially formed of keeping me out of things spiraled into hiding things from me as well. I am the youngest child of four; my oldest brother was ten years older than me. At times he reminded me more of a dad figure than a brother, a great one either way. One specific memory that displayed this thought was when he made a pack of Ramen Noodles. He always sat in the living room floor and watched television while he ate. I remember asking for a bite and he gave me the whole bowl and made another meal, without any hesitation. He was the most giving and kind person that I knew. He was my role model at nine years old. I say “was” because he passed away in August of 2012 at nineteen. As a nine-year-old it was hard to comprehend that you would never again see someone so important to you. I would never get to hug him again, ask for his food, swim in the pool with him, or even talk to him again. The day he passed away he spent the night at his friends. We were told that his heart stopped while he was sleeping; his friends found him in the morning and called the police immediately. His friend’s apartment was small, forcing them to sleep in close quarters, making it obvious that he wasn’t okay when everyone got up to go get breakfast and he laid there still. Panicking, they called the police and let them know the situation. Instead of getting in contact with one of his family members, it was posted on a social media platform for everyone to read, “RIP Devon.” It wasn’t until his girlfriend showed up to our house panicking telling us about it that we grew concerned. Everyone began to try to call his phone. One unanswered phone call after another, until my mom started calling his friends. After an hour of trying to get answers, a girl finally answered her phone. She explained that she knew Devon and was at the apartment, where yellow caution tape lined the complex. On her end of the phone, there were multiple voices talking, the police officers and detectives. They told her that she couldn’t come through and that everything would be sorted out after they contacted the victim’s family. I specifically remember hearing her voice echoing through the phone as she yelled at the officers that she had the victim’s family on the phone. My mom stepped out of the room, calmly, so that she wouldn’t upset us. The phone was handed over to one of the main detectives in charge of the case, who spoke to my mom. He confirmed who was calling and then proceeded to confirm my brother’s death saying that there would be an investigation to rule out any foul play. As family members poured into our home, reality set in. The day was slow and full of denial, shock, and sadness. My grandma tried to distract us kids by playing board games, attempting to postpone the sadness as if we didn’t know something was wrong. Watching my mother cry is one thing but seeing my dad cry shatters me. He has always been a stereotypical Italian dad who rarely shows his emotions. The sight of him crying was a rare one; he walked away from the family members to gather himself and came back to comfort us. Both of my parents took their time to explain to us what had happened. My older siblings had more of an idea of what was happening than I did. I caught on pretty fast when they explained why everyone was at our house.
