Enzo, who loved words more and more, wrote a poem, imagining himself standing on a new world, and titled it “The Stars My Destination.” He later admitted he’d taken the title from an obscure fantasy adventure book that he’d never read but whose title stayed with him. The poem, meant only for his application, was leaked to the local media and became something of a sensation. It eventually became sort of an official unofficial anthem for the Zhong Guo colonization effort. And after all that, Enzo and his family and co-applicants really couldn’t not be chosen to go.
When Enzo had just turned sixteen, he met a girl, named Zo?, and for some reason that passes understanding, he fell for her. Zo? was a girl who seemed like she knew what she was doing most of the time and was happy to tell you that this was in fact the case, all the time, but in their private moments, Enzo learned that Zo? was as nervous and uncertain and terrified that she would say or do something stupid to scare away this boy she thought she might love, as he was nervous and uncertain and terrified that he would do something stupid, too. They talked and touched and held and kissed and learned how not to be nervous and uncertain and terrified of each other. They did say and do stupid things, and they did eventually scare each other away, because they didn’t know any better. But then they got over it, and when they were together again, that second time, they didn’t wonder whether they might love each other. Because they knew they did. And they told each other so.
On the day Enzo died he talked to Zo?, joked with her about her missing the dinner she was supposed to have with his family, and promised to send her a poem he had written for her. Then he told her he loved her and heard her tell him she loved him. Then he sent her the poem and sat down with his family to dinner. When the emergency alert came, the Gugino family, father Bruno, mother Natalie, daughters Maria and Katherina, and son Enzo, went together into the attack shelter Bruno and Enzo had made just a week before, and sat together close, holding each other and waiting for the “all clear.”
On the day Enzo died he knew he was loved. He knew he was loved by his mother and father who, like everyone knew, never stopped loving each other until the very moment they died. Their love for each other became their love for him, and for their daughters. He knew he was loved by his sisters, who he cared for when they were small, and when he was small. He knew he was loved by his best friend, who he never stopped getting out of trouble, and who he never stopped getting into trouble with. And he knew he was loved by Zo?—by me—who he called his love and who said the words back to him.
Enzo lived a life of love, from the moment he was born until the moment he died. So many people go through life without love. Wanting love. Hoping for love. Hungering for more of it than they have. Missing love when it was gone. Enzo never had to go through that. Would never have to.
All he knew all his life was love.
I have to think it was enough.
It would have to be, now.
I spent the day with Gretchen and Magdy and all of Enzo’s friends, of whom there were so many, crying and laughing and remembering him, and then at some point I couldn’t take any more because everyone had begun to treat me like Enzo’s widow and though in a way I felt like I was, I didn’t want to have to share that with anyone. It was mine and I wanted to be greedy for it for just a little while. Gretchen saw I had reached some sort of breaking point, and walked me back to her room and told me to get some rest, and that she’d check on me later. Then she gave me a fierce hug, kissed me on the temple and told me she loved me and closed the door behind me. I lay there in Gretchen’s bed and tried not to think and did a pretty good job of it until I remembered Enzo’s poem, waiting for me in my mail queue.
Gretchen had put my PDA on her desk and I walked over, took the PDA and sat back down on the bed, and pulled up my mail queue and saw the mail from Enzo. I reached to press the screen to retrieve it and then called up the directory instead. I found the folder titled “Enzo Dodgeball” and opened it and started playing the files, watching as Enzo flailed his way around the dodgeball court, taking hits to the face and tumbling to the ground with unbelievable comic timing. I watched until I laughed so hard that I could barely see, and had to put the PDA down for a minute to concentrate on the simple act of breathing in and out.
When I had mastered that again, I picked up the PDA, called up the mail queue, and opened the mail from Enzo.
Zo?:
Here you are. You’ll have to imagine the arm waving for now. But the live show is coming! That is, after we have pie. Mmmm…pie.
BELONG
You said I belong to you
And I agree
But the quality of that belonging
Is a question of some importance.
I do not belong to you
Like a purchase
Something ordered and sold
And delivered in a box
To be put up and shown off
To friends and admirers.
I would not belong to you that way
And I know you would not have me so.
I will tell you how I belong to you.
I belong to you like a ring on a finger
A symbol of something eternal.
I belong to you like a heart in a chest
Beating in time to another heart.
I belong to you like a word on the air
Sending love to your ear.
I belong to you like a kiss on your lips
Put there by me, in the hope of more to come.
And most of all I belong to you