On that fairly warm day in October when we normally celebrated my father's birthday we drove over cracks in the rough road. The car turned into the driveway of the old white house, where a man dressed all in black stood. My father rolled down the window to talk to the man who told him to put the car in line with the other members of our family. Dad gently placed his hand on the gear and pushed it into park. My entire family slowly crawled out the doors of the white van. As my heels clicked violently on the concrete ground, I felt the cool breeze sending shivers down my spine and the warm sun shining on my face. My cheeks warmed and my eyes watered as we made our way to the front of the house. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay I approached the frosted glass door that a black-haired, pale-faced man opened for my family from inside. From the first step inside the door, the musky aroma rose to my nose. The first sight was that of my extended family, whose tears falling on the pink carpets, forced me to lose my composure. I started crying as my mother pulled me towards her and brought me closer. His arms surrounded and tightened my body like a belt. The top of my head got wet as she cried with me. We went into the cloakroom together to hang up our black coats and get a glass of cold water to calm us down. My father's brothers came into the room and talked to my mother. Unable to bear to see them cry, I went to find my cousin. I stepped down to where the carpet changed from pink to dark blue, with my eyes focused only on the dark wooden coffin in the center of the front of the room. Inside lay a cold, glassy body. A 57-year-old man with shiny black hair seemed to appear in a deep sleep from which no one could wake him, my father's father. A part of me vanished and my heart felt empty. The sobs and screams came to me out of nowhere. My knees became weak and I needed to rest. I sat on the 1950s floral sofa behind me. A woman who has become a stain brought me a box of tissues and another glass of water. So choked up that the words “thank you” never managed to leave my mouth. The ceremony began, I sat down and stared at my mother's feet. I felt embarrassed for crying so much, but I couldn't stop it. The tears never stopped. The old man stood up in front of the microphone and began: “We gather here on this October day…”. When he had finished he introduced my father to stand and say a few words. My father approached with tears streaming from the tear ducts of his eyes. So choked up that it took him a minute or two to get the words out of his mouth. Between each word he paused for a long second. Staring at the man in front of me trying to talk about his dead father made me even more sad. I could hear myself crying and I knew that all ears in the room could hear me and all eyes when I sobbed were on me. My imagination played on me. Nobody really stared at me. After my father sat down, the lines of people cleared away as they stood to pay their respects to my grandfather. One after another people slowly moved their feet, almost as if they were attached to the ground. I was next, my eyes and heart couldn't even bear to look at him. I just moved on. The guilt buried in mine,.