But I can honor the person he was.
I can tell his stories.
I can remember his laughter.
And I can keep the promise he asked his best friend to make.
The red dress is still in Theo’s wardrobe.
He tells me he will never wear it again.
I tell him that is probably wise.
Then, every few years, when we gather to remember Jack, Theo will look at me with that familiar mischievous smile and ask, “You sure you don’t want me to wear red?”
And every time, I give him the same answer.
“Try it, and I’ll have you removed myself.”
He laughs.
Daniel shakes his head.
And for a moment, our house fills with the kind of laughter that once belonged to two boys who thought they had all the time in the world.
That is what I remember now.
Not the whispers.
Not the judgment.
Not even the funeral.
