It’s another twenty minutes before I’m finally there.
Standing at the entrance to the cemetery. I struggle to take my first step in, but after a moment or two, I finally do.
My eyes scan the rows of graves on either side of the paved pathway. The light snow covering the grass and foliage gives everything a slightly glittering appearance.
In Russia, cemeteries are often gaunt and bare-looking spaces. The graves line up in perfectly straight lines, matching headstones, and grass trimmed down as neatly as possible. Everything has its place, and its place is neat and well cared for… but dull and gray.
The embodiment of sadness is strong throughout this cemetery. Trees are planted just as neatly, between rows of graves. At this point of the season, the trees are bare and lifeless. Greying branches stick out like jagged bones reaching for the sky, providing neither shade nor protection.
The poppies in my hand are the brightest thing for at least a mile. Even the flowers already on the graves are dead and dying, lacking their once vibrant color.
Each footstep feels heavy underneath me, until I finally stop and turn to look down at the gravestone ahead of me.
I suck in a deep breath, and my eyes scan the words carved into the black and grey marble.
Felicia Volkov.
Daughter. Sister. Wife.
I get to the section that states when she was born, and when she died, and I can’t bare to look at it anymore. I close my eyes and simply stand here for what feels like an eternity.
All the thoughts are gone. All the memories. The voices. Now that I stand here before her, everything is silent. It’s always been this way. You would think that I would come here more often, but it feels like the trip is the hardest part. I often decide to suffer instead.
“I brought these for you,” I whisper.
I lean down and place the bouquet of poppies at the base of her headstone.
It’s strange standing here all alone, but I’ve done it before.
The very first time I’d been surrounded by her family; a family that was far more loving and caring than my own. One that actually grieved for me, rather than blamed me. Despite the fact that they damn well should have.
I swallow hard and try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. It’s all been said before.
With a deep breath I turn around and prepare to walk back down the lonely pathway, but I feel a presence nearby.
“I wouldn’t take you for a flowers kind of guy,” a voice says. I recognize the voice just seconds before I see his face.
“Tommaso,” I say slowly. My hands ball into fists. “What are you doing here?”
He’s standing before me with his hands in his pockets, casual and lacking the same heaviness that I feel. At least, until he steps closer to the grave and his face shifts into something more serious.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he insists.
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him. “I’m not interested in talking.”
“You will be,” he tells me.
I huff. “Are you serious? You follow me all the way to Russia for this shit?” I ask him.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” he responds, his hands moving out of his pockets and waving around him. “I told you, you will talk to me, one way or another.”
“First you almost out me at the restaurant, now you follow me to my wife’s grave. How classy of you,” I sneer at him. “Do you really think this will make me want to talk to you?”
He shakes his head. “No, but you’ve already given me more information. Your wife. I didn’t know you had one, much less a dead one.”
I remove the distance between us and grab him the front of his leather jacket. “Keep her out of your fucking mouth,” I growl at him. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“I think she does, or you wouldn’t be here,” Tommaso says matter-of-factly. “I watched you storm out of the base to come here. Something set you off. What was it?”
