The night before your funeral, I told your mom the story of the night you proposed to me. We were at a house party outside Chicago, before we moved to Albuquerque, and the police busted it. Most of the kids were underage (including you), and I was one of the few who were not (I was 22). After a couple hours of lectures and threats, the police told everybody that they had a choice: either they could spend the night in jail, or they could call their parents to come pick them up. You got down on one knee and proposed to me in this stranger's living room, and I said yes and got to take you home, as your guardian.
Then we passed around a ziplock bag of the things found on your body after the accident. Your wallet, a flashlight. The ring your ex-girlfriend's dad made you out of a motorcycle part seven or eight years ago. I never once saw you take it off. I thought they should have buried you in it, and I got upset. The detail undid me. Like the next day when your brother told us that yes, of course you'd been wearing your motorcycle helmet, but it was smashed in when they found you.
I'm wearing the ring you bought me in the Ozarks. It's cheap plastic, but it has veins in it like turquoise.