I assumed they were brothers. Of course one of them was named Elliot and I’m told that name’s unisex even though I’ve never known a girl Elliot. But their birth dates were only 2 years apart and they shared a last name. In those ways they were similar.
In these ways they differed:
I knew what the younger looked like. On a stone pedestal he stood, carved out of a grey granite or some other sort of rock. One hand was tucked into the pocket of a well-tailored suit. The other held a small pocket watch that, though it didn’t work, was cast in silver and caught the sun when it dared to peek through the clouds. On the pedestal was a long-winded summary of his life’s work and tastes and a statement that he would be sorely missed not only by his relatives, but by all the world which had been robbed of him and his ideas, his impeccable taste in clothes, his penchant for extravagant parties and intimate get-togethers.
And it was clear that the stone monument had endured many storms and beatings by the elements.
But next to it, on the dirt plot before the eldest’s headstone, was a small bouquet of flowers.
I passed them every week when I came to visit you.
And the only flowers fresher than those were the ones I brought to you.