“I said he was going to get better.”
The room was completely silent.
“He said, ‘Probably.'”
Theo wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“But then he made me promise.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Jack had never told us.
Not once.
He had asked us whether his hair would grow back.
Whether he could still go to college.
Whether we’d let him travel if treatment worked.
He talked about the future so constantly that I assumed he believed in it as strongly as I needed to.
But six months before his death, my son had made his best friend promise what to wear to his funeral.
Theo said, “I thought if I didn’t promise, he’d think I was scared.”
He looked at Jack’s coffin.
“I was scared.”
Then he reached into the pocket of the dress.
Yes.
The stupid thing had pockets.
Jack would have appreciated that.
