A few months have passed and I am walking along the same dusty path again. This time, it’s to accompany my brother’s best friend to his grave.

The mango trees are as grand as they were last time, still bearing fruit.

The sky is all white now. I can’t distinguish the clouds from the sky.

We pass through the maze of tombstones. The ground is still damp from the recent rain. I hear my brother weeping softly beside me, so I begin to cry too. I can’t stop my tears.

I always thought they would both stay friends until they reached senility.

My heart is heavy. It feels like an anchor, dragging me, slowing me down.

My mind is still in the church, replaying the eulogies. I’m touched by all the stories people have told. My heart is breaking for his own brother, who stood at the pedestal with his head in his hands, at a loss for words. I couldn’t bear it when he broke down crying. Everyone else did too.

My mind is still in the funeral home, where his mother held a framed photo of his in her hands, posing for a photo with the family. He should have been there, standing with them.

They lay him down beside his father inside a small mausoleum. When they seal his tomb, we say our goodbyes. We walk away, we part ways with wet eyelashes. He’s gone.