He graduated from college last spring.
Daniel and I went.
We sat beside his mother.
Afterward, Theo came over in his cap and gown and hugged us both.
Then he whispered, “I considered wearing red.”
Daniel said, “Don’t push your luck.”
Theo laughed.
For graduation, we gave him one of Jack’s watches.
Nothing expensive.
Just the black one Jack wore almost every day before treatment made his wrists too thin.
Theo stared at it for a long time. “I can’t take this.”
I closed his hand around it.
“Yes, you can.”
He cried.
So did I.
We do that less now.
But grief doesn’t leave.
It changes shape.
There are days when Jack feels 18 years away.
Then I hear one of his stupid phrases in my head, and he’s right beside me again.
I still think about the moment Theo entered the funeral.
The staring.
The whispers.
My own suspicion.
