Aaron laughed. “You look like a fire alarm.”
Mary tossed a price tag at him. “You have never understood fashion.”
We bought the dress.
On the way back to the hospital, Mary asked me to stop beside the small garden near the entrance. Yellow daisies were blooming along the walkway. She bent down and picked one before I could tell her not to.
“You are not supposed to take those,” I said.
She grinned. “Then I suppose they will have to arrest me.”
Later, she slipped the flower between the pages of a book beside her hospital bed. I thought I had forgotten about it. Grief has a way of hiding memories until the moment they are strong enough to break through.
Aaron watched my face. “Mary gave it to me.”
“When?”
He carefully lifted another fold of tissue paper. Under the flower was a small note.
“Three days before she died,” he said. “She made me promise not to show it to you until today.”
