Here’s who he was.
Jack loved old horror movies. The bad ones, specifically — the worse the better, the ones from 1974 with a rubber monster, and he had opinions about which ones were underrated that he would defend with his whole chest.
He burned grilled cheese sandwiches constantly because he refused, on principle, to cook them on low heat. I told that boy a hundred times. He said low heat was for cowards.
He hated tomatoes and put ketchup on everything, including, once, macaroni and cheese, which I have never recovered from.
He could name the capital of nearly every country on earth — it was a bit, he’d do it at parties, somebody would say Kazakhstan and he’d say Astana before they finished — and he could not remember to bring a laundry basket down a flight of stairs if his life depended on it.
Eighteen years and seventeen days. That’s what we got.
