Aaron kept walking.
When he reached the third row, he stopped directly in front of me.
For the first time that day, his composure cracked.
His eyes filled with tears.
“This is FOR YOU,” he said quietly.
Then he swallowed.
“Both of them.”
My breath caught.
Aaron reached into the pocket of the red dress.
He pulled out something small, flattened, and carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
The laughter continued for several more seconds.
Then he unfolded it.
The moment I saw what was inside, the auditorium disappeared.
It was a dried yellow daisy.
One petal was missing.
The stem had darkened with age, and the flower had been pressed nearly flat.
But I knew exactly where it came from.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, Aaron.”
Suddenly, I was back months earlier.
Mary had still been strong enough to leave the hospital for a few hours.
She had spent the previous week complaining about hospital walls, hospital food, and everyone treating her like she might break.
