Firs Buried Love

When I flipped on the radio that night, I couldn’t believe the voice I heard coming through the speakers. It was him. It was his voice. I was mesmerized hearing his voice on the radio. I was paralyzed. I was in shock when I recognized it, because it has been so long since I heard that voice. For an instant, I was unable to move. I was sad, and upset, but also glad to hear his voice one more time before leaving this planet. It was him. It was Giotto.

I didn’t understand the reason why Giotto’s voice was coming through the speakers that night. And why on that night? It could have been any other night, but it was the same night on which he had passed away 7 years ago. Was it a joke? I searched for the hidden cameras in my bedroom. Nothing. Why did I turn on the radio that night? It had been such a long time since I had used the radio, because nowadays there were many other tools and apps for listening to music. But then... I remembered. I had flipped on the radio because I missed listening to old songs, to the ones that were popular in the 2000s, like Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga. However, I was listening to Giotto’s voice instead, not to “Pump It” or “Poker Face”.

That was an ordinary day. I had gone to the university in the morning, had come home, had had lunch, drank some coffee with milk, washed the dishes and relaxed in my bed after studying Italian. At night, my routine usually was to make dinner, do the laundry and drink some chamomile tea before going to bed. I remembered seeing the radio on my old shelf made of wood, the one Giotto made for me when I was only 5. The radio was there, that old, blue radio which had belonged to my deceased great-grandmother. The house where I had been living was an inheritance from my family. My great-great-grandfather had built it with his own hands, and since then, my family has always lived here. And again, that day was an ordinary day, besides the fact that I was alone at home. Mom and dad had gone out for dinner. My brothers Rodrigo (the youngest), and Ricardo (the oldest), were at Beto’s house playing video games. I was by myself that night, so I turned on the radio because I missed listening to those old songs.

The night was cold, but full of stars. The wind that was coming through my window was freezing, and the trees couldn't stop moving around, like children when they dance and sing to their favorite ditty. At that moment in my room, it was just Giotto’s voice and I, who was listening very carefully to him. He was talking about human differences, about war and all kinds of mindsets that exist in this world. He was talking with that lovely and calm voice.

One of my biggest fears has always been forgetting the voice of the people I love. In that second, hearing that voice, I had almost forgotten how Giotto’s voice sounded. I had almost forgotten how much I missed him, loved him.

Suddenly, just like when a surprising storm comes on a sunny day, I realized I have been grieving for the entire last 7 years. I couldn’t believe Giotto was gone. I couldn’t accept not being able to see him anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and how unfair the way in which my family told me he wasn’t among us anymore had been. I just couldn’t understand why he had to go and leave me. He was the first person I lost. And worst of all, I couldn’t do anything to get him back.

All of a sudden, I heard the front door opening. My mom, dad and my brothers were now at home. My parents had probably picked the boys up on their way back home. I turned off the radio and put it in my wardrobe. But then, I noticed something. I stared at the little, old, blue machine as I saw a familiar word. All this time, there had been a CD inside the radio with grandpa’s name on it. I took out the CD, it was hot and smelled like burnt plastic. On it was written: “Giotto’s Memory, 1922”.