In 1985, my high school sweetheart kissed my forehead during prom and promised he’d be back in five minutes. I never saw him again. Forty years later, an eight-year-old girl quietly placed his missing boutonniere into my hands and whispered, “It must be with you.”
Every spring, someone asks me if I ever went to prom.
Not because they’re curious.
Because the high school borrows our elementary gym every April, and the decorations always find their way into the cafeteria before the students do.
Silver streamers.
Boxes of fairy lights.
Balloons that refuse to stay where they’re taped.
I spend my mornings serving macaroni and cheese while teenagers carry cardboard stars through the hallway, arguing over table centerpieces.
Last Thursday, one of the younger teachers leaned against the serving counter while I scooped mashed potatoes.
“You know,” she said, “you’d probably win Prom Queen today.”
I laughed. “Oh, honey. That ship sailed a long time ago.”
“So you went?”
“Once.”
She smiled. “What was he like?”
The question caught me off guard.
Before I could answer, three second-graders began arguing over whose mashed potatoes looked bigger.
I pointed at the trays. “Nobody leaves until those carrots are gone.”
The teacher laughed and walked away. She forgot about the conversation.
I didn’t.
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.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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