Every head seemed to
turn.
Because my brother was wearing red.
Not burgundy.
Not dark crimson.
Bright red.
A perfectly fitted, impossible-to-ignore red suit.
He walked to Dad’s casket, stood there silently for several seconds, then came and sat beside me.
I leaned toward him.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
“Not now, Sarah.”
“Dad would have hated this.”
That made Eric finally look at me.
His expression wasn’t angry.
It was strangely certain.
“No,” he whispered. “He wouldn’t.”
Then the service started.
I didn’t ask again.
But throughout the eulogies, I kept watching my brother.
The minister talked about Dad’s reliability, his steadiness, and his habit of making people feel that someone had remembered them.
Eric stared forward, his jaw tightening exactly the way Dad’s used to whenever he was trying to contain emotion.
For a moment, I remembered what years of arguments had made me forget.
