At the time, I thought I understood what he meant.
I didn’t.
Not completely.
I understood only after he received his diploma.
He walked toward the edge of the stage, reached into the pocket of Mary’s red dress, and pulled out a small tissue-wrapped bundle.
Then he walked directly toward me.
The auditorium had gone strangely quiet.
He stopped in front of me.
His hands were shaking.
“Mum,” he whispered.
Then he placed the bundle in my hands.
I opened it.
Inside was a pressed yellow daisy.
And beneath it was a folded letter.
I knew Mary’s handwriting immediately.
My breath disappeared.
Aaron looked at me.
“She wanted you to have this.”
I unfolded the paper.
The first sentence nearly broke me.
Mom, if I’m not there when graduation comes, please don’t think I’m gone from it.
I looked up at my son.
The auditorium was silent now.
Not one person was laughing.
Because suddenly, the red dress was no longer a strange outfit.
It was a story.
A story about two children.
A story about a sister who knew she might not live long enough to graduate.
