Mori

I did not go to your funeral, so here I am long after at your grave.  My only companion, my teenage son, waiting impatiently nearby.  Wondering why I had to travel, and pull him along with me, so far out of the way to see a stone marker.
I was him once, years ago, waiting impatiently as my mother wept, though that grave had been unmarked and there had been no funeral for her to go to.  Just a place in the grass.   The irony gives me no pleasure.
I set of shot of tequila by you, you would have scoffed at flowers.  You would laugh at my stories, all the loves I had lost.  You would get somber telling yours, showing the memento moris you carried with you.  Wonder where those are now, if they are buried with you, or perhaps carelessly discarded. You called me brother, but you were a better one for me than I was ever for you.
On road trips, you would reminisce as if I had been there with you during the darkest and brightest moments of your life.  The last time you spoke with me I was too busy with a girl whose name I now cannot remember.  The next day your wife called me in tears.
She asked me for money, promised to pay me back.  I doubt that she will nor do I care if she does.  Then she was gone, just as you are now.  I hope you found peace wherever you are.