More a Brother

I had a friend once.

We grew up together. Same neighborhood.

We played sports together, learned to smoke together, walked to school together.

When school ended we shared an apartment. In it we shared women, weed, beer, and our philosophies on each. We shared food, too... when there was any money left over for it.

We sweated side-by-side, shirtless under a Southern sun, earning the cash it took to party at NASCAR races, rock concerts, bars, and beaches.

We spent sleepless weekends playing chess, darts or poker.

We slept in cars, slept in jails, camped in cemeteries, climbed water towers, and went weeks at a time without power, or water while we scrambled for cash.

Sometimes we fought, sometimes we ran, and sometimes we didn’t even give a shit.

We eventually grew up, got married, matured, and grew apart.

When he died it hurt, even though we had not spoken in ages.

That has been ten or twelve years ago, now. Quiet years. Old years, with easy, comfortable days. Years with time to reflect. Years neither of us ever thought we’d reach.

I don’t know how he went. Don’t want to. I hope it happened doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

But I do know that at the end, when the realization of death came to him, that he could rest easy, remembering those days in the sun, working, playing, dreaming... living life boldly, and with abandon.

Living a life worth remembering.