Maybe When We're Older

By Angelina Marie 

    “Hi, I’m Lucia Giancuola. Vinny’s been my best friend ever since we were children.” Everyone there seemed dead too. It wasn’t just Vinny in his casket who was dead. “I know Vinny wouldn’t have wanted me to do this because he always said that when he died, I should just hide him in a bridge somewhere in Upstate New York and run away. He always had a fucked up sense of humor, you know? But really, he might’ve been the very best person I’ve ever known.” I cleared my throat and pulled out the notes that I wrote the night before. 

    I read them over and over very quickly. I didn’t need to repeat his whole life story like everyone else. I shoved the cards back in my pocket and fixed my posture.

   “Two weeks ago on June 10th, 1963, Vinny picked me up from a party that I didn’t want to be at. He picked me up at around 9:30 wearing his black button up tee and a white tank underneath that had oil stains on it from helping his dad work on cars. Vinny waited two streets over for me because he knew that everyone would think less of me if he picked me up wearing that. I personally didn’t care, but he insisted, I just wanted to see him. I actually ran those two streets and got blisters after, but oh well.” I stopped to chuckle.

    “He drove us from Newark to Coney Island for a night out in New York because he knew that I’d been so stressed with my college work and what not. We just talked endlessly about stupid things and laughed forever about anything. Games after games, photos after photos. It was when he noticed that the beach was empty and asked me if I wanted to relax. He put his tee down for us to lie on and had me in his arms.” I struggled to continue, it felt like marbles were in my throat. “I was just bitching about school and being so selfish. It caught me off guard when he stopped me and said that he loved me. That wasn’t all though,” I cried.

    “He said he had loved me since the day he met me and knew that he would always want to be with me. He said he loved the way my nose curves like a beak, the way I can outsmart a room of Harvard-educated men, the way I hold my fork, the way I can live freely when I’m at the beach. He just loves me, that’s what he said. He grabbed my chin softly to lift me for a kiss. He kissed so beautifully, like I was being blessed. It was our first kiss ever. But I’m the idiot who pulled away from him. I’m the idiot that said, maybe when we’re older. And now I live every day in regret because maybe if I hadn’t said that, none of this would’ve ever happened.” I glanced at his closed casket. “My Vincenzio, I hope you know that I’ve always loved you. Maybe more than you’ve loved me, maybe longer. I wish you never would’ve found that gun, I wish you told me you were thinking about this than telling me you loved me.” I let out one last cry before I stepped down, “I hope in our next life we will be that old Italian couples who sit out on their porch and drink strong coffee, have five cats in the yard, grandchildren making noise around the house, and bicker about stupid things but love each other more than yesterday and less than tomorrow.” I took a step down as everyone sat in silence, not a dry eye in the church. I had to leave though, I had to go see my Vincenzio.