My husband was already halfway out of the pew when I got a hand on his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
“He’s wearing a dress, Marla.”
A note from Daily Positive
Want to finish this story without interruptions?
“I can see that.”
“At Jack’s funeral.”
“I know. Sit down.”
And he sat down, and we stayed in that first pew with our shoulders touching while a hundred and forty people whispered behind us, and I want anybody reading this to understand that in that particular moment I was not grieving.
I was furious. At a seventeen-year-old boy I had known since he was seven years old.
My name is Marla Harris. My son Jack died seventeen days after his eighteenth birthday.
It Was Fourteen Months From the Diagnosis to the Funeral and I Hate Putting His Whole Life in a Sentence Like That
Cancer. That’s the word people want and I’ll give it to them and then I’d like to be done with it, because fourteen months of appointments is not who my child was.
