Theo gave a shaky little laugh.
“I told him to shut up. I told him to stop talking like that. I was so mad at him for even thinking about it.”
His eyes filled up.
“So I tried to make it a joke. I said, ‘Fine. I’ll give a speech at your funeral. If you promise to show up at mine wearing a dress.'”
A few people in the chapel smiled.
But I already knew where this was going.
Theo looked over at the coffin.
“And Jack laughed. And he said, ‘Deal. But that means you have to wear one to mine.'”
He looked down at the red dress.
“I told him there was absolutely no way.”
His lips were trembling.
“Then he said it had to be red.”
People were glancing at each other now.
Theo tried to smile.
“He said black makes me look like a funeral director. And he refused to have me standing up here looking that miserable.”
Somebody in the back laughed through their tears.
Because that was exactly my son.
That was Jack, word for word.
Theo stopped. He took a breath.
“I kept telling him he was going to get better,” he said. “I kept saying there wasn’t going to be any funeral.”
His voice broke.
“He said he hoped I was right.”
The whole chapel went silent.
“But then he asked me to promise anyway.”
My hands started shaking in my lap.
Jack never told us about that conversation. Not one word.
For his last six months, he talked about college. About Ohio State in the fall. About backpacking through Europe with Theo the summer after freshman year. About seeing every capital city he’d memorized.
Daniel and I held onto those plans like life preservers. Because the alternative was unbearable.
And all that time, my son had quietly asked his best friend to get ready for something none of the rest of us could face.
Theo wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“I thought if I said no, he’d feel more scared,” he said. “So I promised.”
Then he reached into the pocket of the dress.
And even through everything, I almost smiled.
The dress had pockets.
Jack would have loved that. He always said every piece of clothing should have pockets. It was one of his famous rants.
Theo pulled out a small folded piece of notebook paper.
“I know some of you might think I’m making this up,” he said. “But Jack wrote it down.”
My head snapped up.
Theo looked straight at me.
“Mrs. Harris,” he said. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about this before today. I wanted to. I just didn’t know how.”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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