“I wanted to ask you something,” she said.
We looked toward her.
“Caleb hasn't worn this since the funeral.”
He turned red.
“Jasmine.”
She smiled.
“I know.”
Then she looked toward us.
“Would you mind if we kept it for Ethan?”
I felt my throat tighten.
David nodded.
“Of course.”
Jasmine held the dress gently.
Then said:
“I think it deserves to be remembered for what it meant.”
I smiled through tears.
“So do I.”
A year after Ethan died, we organized a small gathering on August twenty-fourth.
The date of the dare.
We invited family.
Friends.
And several of Ethan's classmates.
Nobody wore formal clothes.
There were hamburgers.
Music.
And photographs of Ethan laughing.
Caleb stood in the backyard holding a microphone.
This time, he wore a red shirt.
He smiled nervously.
“Don't worry. No dress today.”
Everyone laughed.
Then he became serious.
“Ethan taught me something.”
He looked toward David and me.
