I heard my parents’ faint conversation with the man on the screen. “The funeral is tomorrow and I have yet to see her upset. This isn’t normal for an 8 year old is it?” My mother’s hushed voice became a hoarse whisper as she tried to hide the pain in her voice. “She’s still young, maybe she just has not processed everything yet. Give it time, things might be different tomorrow.” My dad reassured her. I turned the volume up on the TV and turned back on the dish detergent. That night I lay in my bunkbed and stared at my bedroom ceiling, watching the shadows dance across my walls as cars passed my bedroom window. I stretched my leg out and felt soft fur brush against my foot. I sat up to see what it was and grabbed my grandma's old brown stuffed bear from the bottom of my bed. I pulled it close to my chest. The smell of her childhood clung to its fur, begging not to be forgotten. My eyes soon fluttered shut and I fell asleep to that soft floral accent. The next morning was a blur. Before leaving, I remember hearing 8 distinct sounds: my parents yelling, doors slamming, cas honking, the shower running, footsteps pounding, my siblings fighting, and my mother's