A story of a friendship pact, a green dress at a funeral, and the lonely fulfillment of a promise when others fail to show up. A raw look at grief, loyalty, and symbolism.
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When Friendship Is Put to the Ultimate Test
They had a deal. A pact. One of those dark, humorous promises young people make, never truly believing they will have to keep it.
The deal was this: if one of them were to die, the other would wear a bright, vibrant green dress to their funeral.
For Private Kevin Elliott and his best friend, Barry Delaney, it was a bet, a symbol of their irreverent bond, a final middle finger to the somber conformity of death. And when Kevin was killed in Afghanistan in 2009, Barry honored that promise. In a sea of black, he stood as a beacon of their friendship, a jarring, beautiful, and heartbreaking tribute to the friend he lost. The now-iconic photo captures this moment of profound loyalty.
But look closer. Behind the woman in black, closer to the camera, there’s another story. A person is being embraced, supported, as they walk. It’s a raw glimpse into the concentric circles of grief that ripple out from a loss. The image, sometimes questioned for its perspective, is not manipulated—it’s simply a captured moment of authentic, confusing, and overwhelming human emotion.
This act of loyalty has resonated across the world. But for some, it resonates on a painfully personal level. It highlights the stark difference between the symbolic promise and the actual, difficult act of showing up.
One man knows this difference all too well. He made a similar pact with his own group of friends. They swore that if any of them passed, the others would gather at their graveside to smoke a blunt in their memory. It was their version of the green dress—a ritual to honor a shared bond, a final inside joke.
But when his best friend, Devin, died, the pact crumbled. The promise, it turned out, was only symbolic for some.
“I’m supposed to gather our friend group to my best friend’s grave to smoke a blunt,” he shares, “and I just can’t manage to do it. I feel like I failed my best friend.”
The task isn’t just about logistics; it’s about confronting the painful reality that the friends left behind are not the people he thought they were. There’s Alan, described as “the most selfish person in history,” and Josh, who is so consumed by his own perceived failures—like a Hollywood director rejecting his unoriginal movie script—that he has no room for anyone else’s grief.
“Devin deserved more,” he says, “but I’m the only one of his close friends who isn’t insane.”
So, he fulfills the promise alone. Every year, in the dark of night, he goes to Devin’s grave. He lights the blunt, a tradition he doesn’t even enjoy anymore, and sits in the quiet. He keeps the oath for both of them, but the loneliness underscores a bitter truth: “Friendship doesn’t carry far for most people.”
The story of the man in the green dress is celebrated because it is the exception, not the rule. It is a stunning example of a promise kept. For every Barry Delaney, there are countless others who find themselves alone in the dark, wondering why a bond that felt so solid in life becomes so fragile in death.
It raises the uncomfortable question: how many of our friendships are built on real loyalty, and how many are simply fair-weather arrangements? A promise is easy to make in a moment of laughter; it is much harder to keep in a lifetime of silence.
He hasn’t failed his best friend. He is the only one who didn’t.
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