I didn’t.
« What was he like? »
That morning, after 40 years of following the exact same routine, I had unlocked the small cedar box in my bedroom dresser.
Inside rested a faded wrist corsage. The ribbon had turned cream instead of white.
The tiny flowers had become so delicate I was almost afraid to touch them.
But every spring… I did.
Because Michael had asked me to keep it forever.
Michael had asked me to keep it forever.
« I’ll keep my boutonniere, » he’d said. « You keep your corsage. Then when we’re old and wrinkled… » He’d grinned. « …we’ll see whose flower survives longer. »
I remember rolling my eyes.
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