Page 6 - My FlipBook

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I finally went to his grave. Mom convinced me
to. She wanted me to face my grief. She wanted me to find
some closure. And she wanted me to leave my room. Maybe

I really wanted to go all along. Maybe I felt I owed her for the
pain I’d caused. Or maybe I thought I could knock the very,
very heavy thing out of my chest. In any event, I walked the
five blocks to the cemetery. I walked slowly. Lying around
depressed for a long time can really affect your stamina.
The swinging gates were open, and as I entered them,
I had a visceral reaction: sweating palms, pounding heart,
swelling lump in my throat. I kept a nervous eye out for Mrs.
Ayman, Amir’s mother, who, according to Mom, visited his

grave every day.
I didn’t want to see her. I hadn’t seen her since the
funeral. I hadn’t even gone over to his house to see how they
were, and they live just next door. Dad and Mom begged
me to, but I couldn’t. I’d let him down. Maybe even failed

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