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A hand gently squeezed my arm and I looked up to find Andrew standing there. His eyes took stock of my face and understanding darkened his eyes. His fingers came up to brush my tears away, like they had so many times before this, and his face leaned toward mine. For a second, I thought he would kiss me. My watch spoke into the silence with one beep then another. Take a breath.
Instead, his breath kissed my ear as he murmured, “Let’s pray.” His hand slid down to my own and gently tugged me toward the casket. We both kneeled, heads bowed, and Andrew spoke.
“Lord.” He paused, reverence reverberating in his voice. I looked over at him and saw tears leaking from his closed eyes. Despite this, he kept as still and steady as always.
“One of Your sons has come home to You. Grant him safe passage. And watch over us here on Earth who mourn this loss but celebrate his life. In Jesus’s name we pray.”
“Amen,” I whispered. Andrew gently pulled me up with him and steadied me on my feet with two hands on my shoulders. I could feel those hundred sets of eyes on us but all I could see was Andrew. He may have taken me from the oasis of my rage and plunged me into the cold sea of my sorrow, but his eyes kept me from going under.
If the funeral was everything that Dante hated in this world, the repass was a horror show. None of Dante’s friends showed up, and it’s a miracle that Ana was even invited. Most of the people were “friends” of my parents who knew nothing about Dante, not even his name. They all came up to me at some point to weep about how great Donny or Donald was, and to talk about how they couldn’t understand how I could stand the grief. After I almost rolled my eyes for the fifth time, Andrew pulled me into the powder room.
“Hey.” I remember looking at him and seeing his eyes dance with mischief. “You should laugh at the next person if you’re really trying to get under your parents’ skin. I’m sure they would love that.”
I huffed out a laugh reluctantly. “These people don’t know Dante, and the ones that did weren’t invited. He loathed my parents’ Black Social Elitist non-friends. Why’s it so important that they’re here, anyway?”
Andrew didn’t answer.
“And anyway,” I continued, “this vibe embodies nothing that Dante ever was in this life. There’s no authenticity to it, no depth. Is this really what my parents think of Dante’s life? This meaningless, shallow shell of a party?”
Andrew raised his eyebrows and turned toward the closed door as someone burst into raucous laughter right outside. He swiveled his eyes back to meet mine. “Say the word and we’re out of here.”
“The word,” I deadpanned. I opened the door and grabbed his wrist. “Let’s go.”
Andrew and I ended up at our favorite park, as we usually did. I quickly unbuckled my heels and flung them into the sand. I wiggled my toes, the delicious feel of grains sliding across my skin, and sighed. Andrew watched me from a few feet away. My face burned as I felt his eyes trying to connect with mine.
He rested his forearms on his knees and looked at me again. “How are you holding up, Ace?” He asked. “No bullshit.”
“No bullshit? I’m fine.” I picked at my cuticles and sighed. “Dante didn’t want to live this life, so why should I mourn him?”
Andrew, patient person that he is, didn’t say anything.
“I mean, what the fuck, right?” I turned to Andrew, feeling my ire burn through my skin. “Who does that? Who gives up on perfectly good medical treatment when he has a family to provide for? Who just throws everything away on the misguided notion that it’s God’s plan for his life?”
“Maybe he didn’t feel like it was his choice anymore.” Andrew sat back and placed one arm on the back of the bench. “Dante believed wholeheartedly that God was calling him home. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes! Yes, it is. Why would God ‘call him home’ when Dante has a child who has barely experienced life? Why would God want Dante to leave his wife with that? What kind of God do we serve if He doesn’t care about what people leave behind in the wake of the tragedy of death?” I felt tears fall and make their path down to my chin. “How could he just leave me here?”
As Andrew slid closer to me on the bench, and wrapped me in his arms, I couldn’t stop the question from repeating in my head. How could he leave me here? How could he just leave?
Soon, it became hard to know which “he” I was talking about: Dante, or God.
