Does love have an age? A lot of you say no it does not, but yet you look at me funny when my girlfriend tells you she is 5 years younger than me. So love has no age to you? Maybe you married someone your age, or a year older, congratulations to you. Do you know how I feel about her? Are you in my head, telling me she is too young?
If love had an age I would be forced to be with someone I did not want to be with. My parents knew it would be her when she was 13, how would I know since they are of course, dead. On my bedstand they left of all the pictures when I moved out, into my own Madrid Mansion, the picture of me and her at ages 13 and 18. They did not leave the picture of me and Bryce, Emmy, them or even our family. They left us. And really, when they died, that is what I was left with. Her. Us. We could be considered a team, but really she is my supporter, my girlfriend, my best friend.
Today I was set to the enormous task of cleaning out my parent's home. For the next two weeks I will attempt to go through every last bit of their belongings as well as me and my sister's. So I guess this will also talk about my family.
Let us go back, a year beforehand. On June 21st of last summer my parents were killed by a drunk driver. They were probably just leaving to go to another company dinner, my dad in his classic black tux with his bow tie. My mom wearing another of her signature dresses, I bet they were laughing, my parents loved to laugh. They gave me that. They took very little seriously, because in the long run they knew that when they died none of it would matter. Honestly my dad was driving, and I am certain he was not paying a whole lot of attention to the road, but that does not excuse someone from drinking and then getting into a car. They were hit, head on by a man who ended up with a few bruises and scratches. My mother was launched from the car and my father was pinned into the seat, his head smashed open from the dash. They died on contact, I am thankful for that one thing. That they never had to feel that pain, the pain I did.
The next morning I turned my phone on, my sister had called me 57 times, I was with Bri the whole time. The hospital had called 8. I knew something was wrong, but that is a given. No voicemail's, nothing. The first thing I did was hop on a plane, Bri insisted she come to see what was wrong, on the plane I called Emmy, honestly. I understood nothing of that conversation with her, she was speaking English which I was not every good at, at the time. Her boyfriend Steven took the phone and said it.
I thought he was kidding.
And then I heard Emmy again, and I knew he was not. I could not believe it, I had to walk into this hospital and identify the bodies of my parents, Emmy, I would never allow her to do it.
Walking in there was my worst nightmare, Bri would not let me do it alone. They brought us to the morgue, their was a couple lying on the hard metal of the gurney. I was still looking for them. That man, he was not my father, my mother, she never looked like that. But that was their clothes, their wedding rings. I will never forget the last image of my parents, dried blood, swollen and my father had part of his head missing. Those were the people who took care of my for 21 years of my life, I owed them everything. And someone had taken them away, not only was I incredibly angry, but I was in denial. It took all the strength Bri had to keep me standing where I was and tell them that those were in fact, what was left of my parents.
Life after them was difficult, my sister was going back to school in America with her boyfriend Steven and Bri really did not know how to handle me. She was only 16 and I was getting out of control. In all honesty I think she was ready to go back to Chicago, without me. She would wake up nights and find me drunk and breaking things. I knew it was over with us, but I did not start seeing anyone else, Emmy called and texted but I never answered. My house was the lonliest place in the world. I did not attend my parents funeral, I never visited their grave or stepped foot in that house until now.
I got into smoking weed, an incredibly bad habit. I hung out with the wrong people and I put all my time into Modeling or sex. I was wealthy, famous and always hanging out with the coolest people. I lived that year faking it to make it. But when I came back to Milan, there she was again. And this time, she was ready. As ready as I was. She knew me, she always has, and it started turning out better. I stopped lying to myself that I was fine, I stopped smoking pot and drinking to drown it all out. I started accepting that they were gone and I started moving on.
Today marks the first full day I have spent in their house, I did take a trip before but everything is cleaned up from then. Today is the first time I have woken up clear headed and looked at the sunrise from my home. The same sunrise my parents watched for 45 years. I spent an hour sitting on the couch with Bri just watching everything. Seeing this house as it was my whole life, one. Last. Time. And then I kissed her, I wish I knew where it came from or why I did it because it might be the most memorable kiss we have had, or I have had. Ever. So many things I felt and one outweighted them all, how much I love her.
This house will never see the footsteps of my parents again. But it lived through the steps of toddlers, laughter, tears, pain, joy, teenage drama, kitchen fires, kisses, and everything in between of one family.
This house lived through the life and deaths of my parents. Crystal and Iago.
I miss you. I love you. And I wish I could tell you one more time.