Chapter 6 #9
I smile back because I have to. Because he's three and he doesn't deserve the full weight of this yet. He doesn't deserve to look at my face and learn that sometimes love ends in a slab of stone.
"Ready?" Rava asks him.
Antonio nods. Then he looks at me. "We bring flower?"
My throat tightens instantly. "Yeah, we bring a flower."
One flower for a man who should have had years. One flower for a grandfather who never got the chance to become one. One flower for all the shit death steals and never gives back.
Rava picks up the keys.
I grab the flowers. Antonio reaches for one of our hands, and then we head for the door.
…
We step outside. The sun is out, and the sky's stupidly clear. The whole world looks bright. I hate beautiful weather when I'm sad. It feels disrespectful.
Antonio wants to climb into the car by himself. Rava helps him anyway. I stand there with the flower in my hand, staring at the backseat, staring at my kid, staring at this whole life I built after my father died.
Sometimes that still feels impossible to me.
That I kept going.
That I fell in love.
That I became somebody's husband.
Somebody's dad.
That my father missed all of it.
I get in the car last. Shut the door. Rava doesn't try to distract us on the drive. He doesn't try to make us forget where we're going. He doesn't try to act like this is just another day, just another stop, just another family outing with a flower in the backseat.
And I love him for that.
I love him for taking it seriously enough to show that the place we're going is serious too. That my effort is serious. That my father is serious.
That grief doesn't stop being grief just because years passed and life kept happening around it. He respects the day. He respects me. I love him so much for that it almost hurts on its own.
Because Antonio learns from him.
He watches Rava to learn everything. For how to speak, how to react, how to listen, how to be soft without becoming weak, how to be kind without becoming stupid.
He's becoming a better little human because Rava is raising him too, and I know that in my bones. I don't think I could've done that by myself. I could've loved him by myself, yeah. I would've loved him so hard it ruined me.
But I don't think I could've made him this good alone. Not with this much patience. Not with this much grace.
…
We get to the cemetery.
It's quiet. It's always quiet. Doesn't matter if I come in the middle of the day or at three in the morning.
The silence is always the same.
I guess that's what death sounds like. Or maybe it's what's left after it's done taking.
Rava and I each take one of Antonio's hands and start walking.
He swings our arms back and forth between us as we go, his little shoes tapping against the path, his whole body light with that careless energy kids still get to have.
That's from Rava too. The swinging.
Rava's been doing that since the first time we held hands on the beach. First time our fingers locked together for real, he started moving our hands a little as we walked.
And now we're doing it again.
Only now there's one more tiny human between us. One more heartbeat. I look down at Antonio for a second, his little fingers wrapped around ours, his head turning left and right at everything, and the sadness in me gets bigger and softer at the same time.
Because this should've happened differently.
My dad should've seen this. He should've seen us walking toward him like this. He should've seen the little boy with his name swinging between me and the man I love.
He should've laughed. He should've said something rude. He should've looked at Antonio and claimed instantly that the kid got all the good parts from our side.
He should've been here for all of it. Instead we keep walking through the same quiet that never changes. And after a few more steps, we stop right in front of my father's gravestone.
There he is.
Reduced to a date. A piece of stone.
I swear that no matter how many times I come here, no matter how many flowers I bring, no matter how grown I am now, some part of me still feels the same when I stand in front of it.
Too young for this.
Too angry for this.
Too old to still want my dad this badly.
Antonio goes still between us. His swinging stops. "Happy birthday, Grandpa Antonio," Antonio says, and places his tiny flower down on the grave.
Rava smiles softly and brushes a hand over his hair. "Good job, bean." Then Rava leaves his flower too. And I leave mine last. For a second, the three flowers sit there together, and I can't stop staring at them.
Mine. Rava's. Antonio's.
Three people standing here for one man who should've been standing here with us instead. Antonio looks down at the stone again. Then up at me. "Is this grandpa’s bed?"
That question.
I swallow hard and force my face to stay normal for him. "Something like that, yeah."
Antonio studies it with that serious little look he gets when he's trying to understand something. "Why he sleep outside?"
I let out the weakest breath and look away for one second, because if I keep staring at him while he asks these things, I'm going to fall apart right here in front of both of them.
Rava stays quiet beside me.
Not because he doesn't care. Because he knows this belongs to me first. I crouch down a little so I'm closer to Antonio's height.
"He's not really sleeping, baby," I say softly. "People just say things like that sometimes because... because the real words feel too hard."
Antonio frowns. "What real words?"
I hate this. I hate this so much.
I hate that one day had to come where I would have to explain death to my son using my own father.
"That he died," I say.
Antonio blinks. "Died means gone and bye?"
"Yeah," Rava says gently.
Antonio looks back at the grave. "Forever?"
I nod once because I don't trust myself to speak right away. "Yeah," I manage.
"Then how he be my grandpa?"
My eyes burn instantly.
Because he is. Because he isn't. Because he should be.
Because he never got to do any of the things grandpas are supposed to do. He barely had the time to be a dad.
I rub a hand over my mouth and look down. Rava answers first this time. "He's your grandpa because he's your daddy's dad."
Antonio thinks about that. "But he never met me."
No one speaks.
Because that's it.
That's the whole tragedy in one little sentence from a three-year-old boy. He never met me.
I swear I can feel my heart physically aching in my chest. "No," I say. "He didn't."
Antonio tilts his head. "Would he like me?"
That one nearly destroys me. I have to look away. I have to.
Because yes. Because more than anything. Because my dad would've loved this kid so hard it would've been ridiculous.
He would've spoiled him. Taught him dumb things. Put him on his shoulders. Snuck him gifts. Claimed all his best traits came from our side.
Loved him instantly. Loved him in that easy, shameless way grown men sometimes only allow themselves with children. And my son has to ask me that like it's a mystery.
Like there's a chance the answer could be no.
I kneel fully in front of him now and put both hands on his little arms. "He would've loved you," I say, and I can hear my voice starting to break. "So much."
Antonio's face softens a little. "Really?"
"Yeah," I whisper. "Really."
"He love you too?"
I nod. "Yeah."
Antonio smiles a little, satisfied with that answer. "He have same name with me."
I let out one broken laugh. "Yeah, bean. He does."
Antonio looks weirdly proud of that. Proud, like sharing a name is exciting.
"I think he like my dinosaur shirt too," Antonio says.
That tiny sentence almost finishes me.
Because my dad probably would have. He would've pointed at it and made some joke. He would've asked him the dinosaur's name. He would've acted impressed even if he had no idea what Antonio was talking about.
He would've made space for him instantly. And there is no room in the world now for that moment except in my head. Rava's hand lands at the back of my neck.
Antonio looks at the gravestone again. "Can Grandpa hear me?"
I stare at my father's name.
I don't know. I never know.
Sometimes I come here and talk anyway. Sometimes I sit in the car after and say nothing. Sometimes I bring flowers like that changes anything.
"I think maybe... somehow," I say carefully. Antonio nods. Then he steps closer to the grave again and puts his tiny hand on the stone. "I'm Antonio too," he says, like he's introducing himself.
My whole face twists before I can stop it.
Rava squeezes the back of my neck once.
Antonio keeps talking to the stone. "I have toys. And Blu. And Lulu. And dada and daddy. And Lolezo and Maco. And I'm three."
I laugh through the tears that are already slipping out now because there's no stopping them anymore. There's just no way.
"He wants you to know everything," Rava says softly beside me. Because he's a child. Because he thinks introductions still lead somewhere.
Part of him really believes his grandpa might hear him, smile, and know him now.
And maybe that's the cruelest part of all. Not that he doesn't understand death. That he understands love so naturally that he assumes love must still work through stone.
Antonio turns back to me. "Why you crying, daddy?"
I wipe under my eyes too fast. "I'm okay."
"No, you sad."
I nod slowly because I can't lie to him here. Not in front of my dad. "Yeah," I say. "I'm sad."
Antonio walks over and hugs my neck. Rava comes closer and wraps his arms around both of us, and suddenly all my sadness gets tangled up with gratitude so hard it almost hurts just as much.
Because that's the sick joke of love, I think. Sometimes the person holding you together is the exact reason you realize how broken you still are.
"I'm gonna take him over to the garden for a little bit," Rava whispers against my hair. "You've got a few minutes, if you want."
I nod.