Kimberly Love visited her daughter’s gravesite at Glen Oaks Cemetery in suburban Westchester on Gina’s 28th birthday. Bending down, she pounded the ground with an open palm and yelled through choking sobs, “You hear me knocking? Answer your damn door!”
Love wore a pink “RIP Gina” T-shirt and was flanked by nieces who wore similar shirts, one with a photo taken the day Gina was shot with the words “four hours earlier” written above. Keys hung from her back pocket as she leaned over where the headstone would eventually be.
The ground over Gina’s grave was soft and the grass long. Love slapped it again.
“Gina!” Love sobbed again. She combed the grass with her hands, running her fingers through it and drawing it in between her knuckles.
Then she stood, and the family gathered in a semi-circle and held hands.
“We cannot explain the hurt we are feeling right now but our hearts are hurting right now, Gina. You were my angel, you was my best friend,” Love said.
“Your brothers said they love you,” she continued, asking her daughter to watch over Alphonso, whom she called “Bruiser.”
