Nuncio Veronese’s Funeral, Boston
(Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)
Zahara
Just you, Nera.
Massimo’s words ring in my head as I hurry along the dirt path toward the parking lot. My vision is so blurred by tears that I can barely see where I’m stepping. I lift my arm and brush the wetness away with my sleeve.
That bastard.
“Zara! Wait!” my sister calls after me.
I quicken my pace. I’m in no shape to talk with her now. The only thing I want to do is curl up in a dark corner and cry in peace.
When he made his approach toward Nera and me, my heart was beating so rapidly that I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. In a way, I’ve always perceived Massimo as somewhat unreal. Untouchable. Out of reach. Seeing him here, in front of me, as a real flesh-and-blood entity, almost made
