Page 9 of June: Jess' Story

Hi. How are you?

Amy

Fine.

…

And how are you?

Better now, thank you. (Also, I’m fine.)

I’m reaching out because I wanted to know where Amy and Tallulah are buried?

Fairfax Memorial Park. Ketterman plot.

Thank you.

September 22, 2013

It’s sunny today. And hot. And humid as fuck. Whenever I imagine coming to a cemetery, I always think it should be overcast, cold, maybe rainy, but it never is. Even when I’ve visited my Dad, the weather’s always been excellent. Well, maybe not excellent, but like, not shitty. I’ve never needed an umbrella, and isn’t that always how it is in the movies? Someone dressed in black, hovering over a gravestone as rain drops plop down on their umbrella?

Well, I’m not wearing black today either. I love black, but today I felt like putting on something sunshine-y for Amy. For her little girl. I chose a wispy, floral dress from this new brand, Reformation. It looks like something Amy would have picked out for me. The buttery yellow color pops against my olive skin and hair. My dark brown (heat absorbing) hair is pulled back in a half-up do, leaving humidity dampened waves falling to the middle of my back.

I feel like Amy would have approved the whole look.

I didn’t go to her funeral, obviously, and I couldn’t make it last year. I was too busy settling into my new job (read: trying not to get fired) to break away. But I wanted to do this, and decided I would visit her today. To pay my respects for a life cut far too short, and say thanks for the time she spent with me. May even let me borrow the Volvo so I could take my time. Said this way, I could be without an agenda today. It was nice of her.

The drive down is about five hours, NYC to DC. Well, northern Virginia. I could’ve taken a train, but then getting between the train and the cemetery, timing it all, driving just won out in the end. And the drive wasn’t terrible either. I listened to a 90s throwback playlist, stopped for coffee, and got flowers — two bouquets. One primarily whites and yellows, soft and buttery like Amy. And for Tallulah, I got pinks and oranges. I imagine she was just as sweet as Amy, but more vibrant.

I’d called ahead for a map and the placement of their headstones, avoiding hours wandering aimlessly. So when I arrive, it’s a quick park and a short walk to where the Kettermans’ plots are located.

The cemetery is hilly, and a bit…idyllic? Weird thing to think about a cemetery, but it’s true. There’s large oak trees scattered throughout the grounds offering shade and the hills roll gently, luring you in to meander through the neat rows of graves.That’s weird to think, right?Right.

When I get to their row, I divert my gaze to the ground and start looking for their names.Horace Ketterman, Eunice Ketterman, and on and on until…Amy Palomino and Tallulah Palomino. They share a headstone, and a grave. I don’t know why that makes me feel grateful, but I am, thankful, that she’s not alone. She was an only child just like me. We bonded over that at a family reunion once.

My eyes well with water, but I don’t really want to let loose any tears, so I don’t. I sniffle a bit and hold them in.

Dropping to my knees, I let my purse fall on the soft grass and start arranging the flowers around their gravestone. While I do, I talk to her. To them.

Hi, Ames. I’m sorry I didn’t make it here sooner. I didn’t know. See, my dad died. And I don’t know if you knew that, but I guess if you see him, tell him I said hi.

I’m so sorry that you’re here, Amy. I’m sorry that you had to experience that day…with your baby, but I’m glad you’re together. Your own little girl gang, right?

Remember when we formed that girl gang at Pops’ 80th birthday party? Why were all the boys in our family such pricks? Doesn’t matter, we kicked their ass in flag football, and I think Pops had never been so proud to have granddaughters than he did that day.

I’m really sorry we lost touch somewhere along the way. I would’ve loved to have known Tallulah June.June, that wasn’t for me? Was it? I don’t think it was, but I can pretend, and that makes me love your little girl even more than I possibly could have already.

I sit back from my floral arranging and run my fingers over the engraved headstone. It’s something I do when I visit my dad as well. I trace his name, Robert Butera, over and over. But here, today, I trace Tallulah June Palomino’s name just once. I think, more than anything, I feel the most sorry for never meeting her daughter. I can’t place the feeling for why that is…

“Ahem.” A deep clearing of the throat startles me and my shoulders shoot up. I turn around to find a man standing a few feet back, watching me. I didn’t even hear him approach. He doesn’t come bearing flowers, or anything, and my hackles rise for a second since there’s no one else around.It’s broad daylight, and this is not New York, I remind myself.

I stand, dusting off my dress, and turn towards the man who has moved closer.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Just waiting my turn to pay my respects,” he says to me in a voice I think I recognize.

“Alexander?” I ask. Even though we’ve texted, he’s never told me his name. But I looked up the obituary after that phone call and learned that Amy’s married name was Amy Palomino,survived by Alexander Palomino.The same Alexander Palomino who’s been awarded practically every medal for valor except the medal of honor. I’ve never seen pictures of him. He’s not on social media. (I looked.) He’s got a quiet presence in this world if he even has one at all. And everything I have found of him is written in Amy and Tallulah’s obituary.