When I was 8 years old my mom, brother, and I moved to Little Village. My mom was a  single mother who worked hard to be able to provide for me and Joseph as best as she could.  Although we did not grow up with the finest things and even wore hand-me-down clothes for  most of our childhood, we were the happiest kids.

Joseph was my first best friend. We would  make mud pies and spend Sunday mornings with our bowls overflowing with milk and Frosted Flakes with a cup of sugar sprinkled on top. We watched SpongeBob, innocently laughing with  no worries in the world. At times, we would be competitive with one another on who knew their  times tables faster, who knew more Bible verses, or even who mom loved more.  

Sundays were our favorite. It was the only day my mom had off; Joseph and I would  wake up early, make our beds and put on our Sunday best. He would look to my mother and me and jokingly say, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a ladies’ man. ” I would turn to my mother and on the same accord we would both say, “Sure, Joseph” and all of us would burst out  laughing.

That was our thing, to make each other laugh before it was time to be serious and go to  church; praise and worship was our favorite part of church. We would sing loud and proud to songs like, “Here I Am to Worship,” “I Can Only Imagine,” and “Lord, I Give You My Heart.” We would clap and dance together. That was home to me, that is what family meant to me. After church, my mom would take us out for lunch.  

When our food arrived at our table, we would grab each other’s palms, bow our heads, and my mother would say, “Thank you, Father, for blessing me far greater than I deserve. If I have nothing in this world, at least I have my kids, my greatest blessings, and without them and you, Father, I have nothing.” 

“Amen,” we would say, and dig in. It was the best reward. I remember I would stop and look over as they were eating, and my heart felt whole. 

Although Joseph and I were playful with one another, I knew I could always confide in him. I did not grow up with a sister, but in a sense, he was the closest thing to a sister. I could cry to him with issues I was facing within myself or problems I was having in school. He would not say a word, just listen to me until I was done venting, and then put on my favorite show, Lizzie McGuire. We would watch it for hours on end until my worries just slipped away.  

High school came, and my mother started picking up extra shifts so that we could move out of Little Village due to the increase in gun violence. Three kids were killed three days into the start of high school. Shortly after, we moved to West Lawn, but Joseph had his friend group in Little Village and would visit them from time to time. I ended up having a boyfriend and became pregnant. 

I was terrified to tell my mother. Joseph was the first person I shared the news with. The first thing he said was, “I’m going to be an uncle. That’s the best news I heard all day.”

As my pregnancy went on, things with the father of my child became very rocky, and I ultimately made the decision to part ways with him. Joseph and my mom were there to support me all the way.  Joseph decided to drop out of school so that I would be able to finish high school, and so he would be able to help me as well as my mother with financial support.

In July 2016, Penelope Grace was born, and by my side was my mother. With happy tears in her eyes, she looked to me and said, “I’m so proud of you, kiddo.” Moments later, Joseph walked in, hugged me and immediately picked up Penelope so cautiously and said, “Her eyes are so beautiful, she has your  nose Nat….My baby sister had a baby! This is unreal.” 

A few weeks later, I was sitting outside. It was a beautiful summer day, the breeze was refreshing, the laughter of kids echoed in the distance. I remember Joseph coming to me. I could tell something was wrong by the look on his face.  

“Joe, you okay? You look flushed.” 

“I woke up with an uneasy feeling, I woke up with my chest feeling heavy,” he replied.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I said.  

“No.” He quickly changed the subject and started talking about our childhood.  We always would have conversations. But for some odd reason this one just felt different.  He then proceeded to say, “You know Nat, you’re going to be something one day. You’re going to find someone who is going to love you and Penelope.” 

I looked at him with confusion and simply said, “Thanks, Joe, that means a lot.” I once again asked, “Are you sure everything is alright?”  

“Yes, sister,” he replied. He told me he was going to Little Village to visit his friend Edwin. He hugged me and kissed Penelope and said, “I will be home around 7. I’ll call you to see if you want me to bring you back Atotonilco when I head back home.” 

5 p.m. came and my phone rang. It was Joseph. “What kind of tacos do you want?”

“Two steak please.” 

“Okay, cool. I’m on my way home now,” he said.  

“Cool, see you when you get home.” 

Moments later, I received a call from my brother’s friend Edwin. He was in a panic and was shouting over the phone, “Natalie, your brother’s been shot. They are taking him to Mt. Sinai.” 

I hung up and called Joseph’s phone. Every ring that passed I said, “Please pick up,  please pick up.”  

I instantly felt a wave of warm tears flooding down my face. I could hear my heart beating so fast, it sounded like a horse’s hooves clopping. The world felt like it was at a standstill. I rushed to my neighbor and told her to watch Penelope. I grabbed my keys and raced to the hospital. I took every red light in sight, clenching the wheel so tight I could feel the burn on my palms, and pleaded with God to save my brother. I had never prayed harder in my life. I  begged God with everything in me.  

When I arrived at the hospital, I called my mother and said, “Mom I need you to come to Mt. Sinai Hospital NOW! It’s an emergency,” hung up, and waited for her to arrive.

When my mother walked in, it was like she knew something terrible had happened, like she had a gut feeling.  

A nurse approached us and said she would escort us to a room. She took us into a room labeled “Chapel.” Waiting for us was a doctor and a priest.  

“NO, NO NOOOOOO, ” I shouted as the doctor began to say, “I’m sorry. Joseph’s gunshot wounds were far too great. His heart gave out during surgery. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” 

As I looked to my mother, we hugged each other as if we were both trying to hold one another up and ended up falling to the floor together. I could feel her tears falling down my face. She looked up at the doctor and said, “Take me to my baby boy please. My baby needs me.” 

The hallway where my brother was felt like it was three miles long. The smell of death lingered in the air; the wood floors creaked each step we took. The hospital itself looked  untouched since the early 1940s. As we approached the room, I grabbed my mom’s trembling hand. As we walked in, I saw my brother, who was once full of life with the biggest smile and kindest heart, lying lifeless. His body was cold to the touch, and his skin had lost its beautiful  brown color.  

A wailing cry came from my mother that pierced my heart and echoed off the walls.  “Why, God?” she shouted. “Why my baby?”

I asked God the same questions. My mother  pulled back the white sheet and counted 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9…16 bullet holes. Every time my mother counted a hole, I felt a stab in my heart. How could someone possibly hate my brother so much to do this to him?  

In walked the nurse, informing us that we had two more minutes. I held Joseph’s lifeless hand to my cheek and whispered, “I love you, Brother.”  

Two minutes wasn’t enough. My mother hugged him tightly and refused to let go.  Neither of us wanted to leave him there. We ended up calling a taxi as we were not in the right state of mind to drive. The ride home felt like eternity. My whole childhood replayed in my head as if someone had pressed rewind on my memories. I took a glance at my mother and realized in  that moment… I had lost her too.  

The night was brutal. I would periodically wake up screaming from the pit of my stomach. It felt like a horrible dream I couldn’t wake up from. Hours later, I would wake up to  my mom doing the same thing. The morning of the funeral, I was the first to go in before my mother. I remember telling Joseph as he lay still, “Penelope will never know how special her uncle was. What am I going to do without you? What is mom going to do without you?”  

All these questions. And no answers. I never thought about the possibly of death hitting my family. As the funeral ended, I was given an additional fifteen minutes with Joseph, and I did the only thing I knew how to do. I took out my phone, went on YouTube, and played, “ I Can Only Imagine” by Mercy Me, and sang the lyrics we once did together as kids: “I can only imagine what it will be like when I walk by your side / I can only imagine what my eyes will see  when your face is before me / What will my heart feel, or in awe of you be still.” The song that we used to dance and clap to had me in tears. 

“Wake up Joe, PLEASE WAKE UP!” I said. In that moment, it struck me that despite the many conversations over the years Joseph and I had, death was something we never spoke about.  I wasn’t prepared for this. All I wanted to do was rewind time and go back to when we would wake up and eat cereal and laugh at SpongeBob for hours, hold on to our Sundays out with our  mom for just a little longer. No way was this goodbye. 

The family bond we had was broken. My mother couldn’t cope with the loss of my brother and fell into addiction. Two of the most important people I loved were taken from me. I came to the reality that I was alone in this world with Penelope. 

The anniversary of Joseph’s death lands on July 2, just a day before my birthday. It brings me to tears. I always wonder, if this tragedy had never happened, what would life be like? I think what hurt the most was not being prepared for death to happen unexpectedly or prematurely, but also the loss of someone who is still alive. I mourn who my mother used to be. 

It was important for me as a mother to explain to Penelope all forms of death. She is 8 years old now, and our Sundays consist of church followed by lunch. At our table, we talk about Joseph and Grandma. When I’m sad, she comes and snuggles next to me and says, “Do you want to watch cartoons with me, Mom?”  

I realize that I’m able to continue living because of her. God knew I needed her for this exact reason. Penelope has a lot of Joseph and my mother in her. And at bedtime when I tuck her  in, I recite the same prayer my mother used to say: “Thank you, Father, for blessing me far  greater than I deserve. If I have nothing in this world, at least I have my Penelope, my greatest blessing, and without her and you, Father, I have nothing. 

“Amen.”

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Photos courtesy of Natalie Potempa