The laughter followed him.
He accepted his diploma.
Then he turned.
But instead of moving toward his classmates or the photographers near the side of the stage, Aaron walked down the steps.
And started up the center aisle.
Toward me.
The room became louder.
Someone laughed again.
A girl nearby whispered,
“Is he seriously doing this?”
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.
She wanted to do something normal.
So I took her shopping.
Graduation was still months away, but Mary had made me promise we would find her dress.
“No depressing colors,” she told me as we entered the store.
“You haven’t even looked yet.”
“I already know.”
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