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We held a memorial on January 20 in Lorenzo’s honor. Amara had all Lorenzo’s designs made and we sold them at low prices, all earnings going toward a cancer charity. Everyone helped, it wasn’t just me. But I swore that whatever amount was collected, I’d double it. For him. Because he deserves it. He deserved the world.
“He deserves it. And more,” I utter, still unable to say things like that out loud. I’m still unable to accept he’s gone.
“If you’re looking for his grave, it’s not here. It’s in the far end, on the east side,” Amara clarifies. A confused look flashes on my face. “He insisted on it being there. We created a whole arrangement for it, and they accepted. You’ll know when you see it, it’s behind the flower,” she explains.
I understand quickly. Behind the flower. Behind the grave I’ve never wanted to see in my lifetime, but I will. Because Lorenzo is behind it.
She smiles, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Take care,” she adds, before walking away.
A million feelings take over my heart. But I block them, because I need to go see him.
I walk back to Elias, standing there as he continues to search more of the headstones.
“I spoke to Amara. She told me where the grave is, it’s an arranged placement.” I explain. He looks up and nods his head, then follows me to the far east side.
We stop when we find a grave, placed alone in its row. Lorenzo’s. I step closer, reading the words engraved on the stone.
Lorenzo Russo. 2006-2025.
My eyes water as I look at it. I take a step back, wrapping my arms around my stomach. He’s dead. This is proof. He’s gone.
Elias steps closer and kneels down. He places a flower onto the floor, in front of the grave. I look into my bag, where a small bouquet of flowers sticks out.
I give him his time, turning around and looking at the graves in front of Lorenzo’s. There are two, next to each other. The two names read:
Violet Larson. 2007-2013
Malia Larson. 1987-2013
Behind the flower.
My chest feels tight, and I inhale a shaky breath. Flowers are growing on both graves, even after all this time. I pick out a flower from the bouquet, then kneel to the ground, placing it between the two graves.
“You were safe. Why did he have to find you?” I whisper.
I wipe my tears and stand up then walk back to Elias. “Do you need some time?” he asks. I nod my head. “I’ll wait at the entrance for you,” he continues and I nod my head again, before he walks away.
I look back at the grave, dropping onto the ground to sit in front of it.
“Hey Lorenzo. It’s been a long time,” I say, my voice cracking. Tears burn in my eyes as my throat begins to clog up. “I miss you. Things haven’t been the same since you left. I saw your mom. She looks like she’s doing better.” I continue, as if he’s still in front of me. Like I’m having a normal conversation with him, except he isn’t here.
“I came to say happy birthday, even though it doesn’t really count as one.” I take the flowers and place them next to his grave. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. It’s just that I didn’t think I could. It hurts to sit here. To see proof that you’re actually gone.”
I sniff and look at the grave in front of me, my sight blurring. I swallow the lump in my throat, smiling slightly. “I guess you really are stuck behind me now.” I laugh, tears still covering my eyes. I bite my bottom lip. “How am I going to do this, Lorenzo? I know you said I’d get through everything. But I don’t know if I’m going to get through this, without you.”
I take my phone out, ignoring the many notifications. I only focus on one thing: The messages from an unknown number. A number it won’t show me. The one number with security that beats mine.
Unknown:Hey Vi
Unknown:It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?
Unknown:You do miss me, don’t you?
Unknown:Are you not going to answer?
Unknown:Or I can just talk to M, I’m sure she would
Unknown:She wouldn’t make the mistake not to
Unknown:You’re running out of time
I look at all of them; there’s not a single reply from me. I raise my head back to the grave. My heart is beating rapidly in my chest. I can’t go to anyone with this, no one but Lorenzo.
He won’t hear. What I tell him won’t matter. Unlike everyone else. I can't tell anyone else.
“How am I going to do this alone?”
To be continued . . .
