Part 1: Five Minutes

In 1985, my high school sweetheart kissed my forehead at prom and promised he would return in five minutes.

I never saw him again.

Forty years later, an eight-year-old girl placed his missing boutonniere in my hands and whispered, “This belongs with you.”

Every spring, prom decorations appeared in the elementary-school cafeteria where I had worked for decades.

One morning, a young teacher asked whether I had ever attended prom.

“Once,” I answered.

Then she asked what my date had been like.

I avoided the question, but the memories followed me home.

Inside my bedroom dresser was a cedar box containing a faded wrist corsage. Michael had given it to me on prom night.

“I’ll keep my boutonniere, and you keep your corsage,” he had said. “When we’re old, we’ll see which flower survives longer.”

Michael and I had dated since sophomore year. I planned everything; he was often late because he had stopped to help someone.

Once, he missed a movie because an elderly woman had locked her keys inside her car. On prom night, he arrived late after chasing a neighbor’s escaped dog in his tuxedo.

That was Michael. He could never ignore someone in trouble.

The gym looked magical. Tiny lights reflected from the ceiling, and Michael made me laugh through every dance. When our names were announced as Prom King and Queen, neither of us believed it.

During the final slow song, I rested my head against his shoulder.

When it ended, Michael kissed my forehead.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I left something in my truck.”

I asked what it was, but he smiled.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”

I gave him five minutes.

He ran toward the parking lot, turned once to wave, and vanished between the cars.

Five minutes became ten. Ten became twenty.

At first, everyone assumed he had stopped to help somebody. Then teachers searched the lot and discovered his truck was missing.

Three days later, police found it abandoned on a country road nearly forty miles away. The keys remained in the ignition, and his tuxedo jacket was folded on the passenger seat.

Inside the glove compartment was a wrapped box bearing my name.

It contained a silver bracelet—the surprise he had promised me.

But Michael was gone.

Two years later, he was declared legally dead.

The court closed the case.

My heart never did.

Part 2: The Missing Flower

Life continued, though mine no longer resembled the future Michael and I had planned.

Wedding invitations arrived. I attended one ceremony, smiled for photographs, and slipped away before the first slow dance. After that, I stopped going.

People eventually stopped trying to introduce me to someone new.

I found temporary work in an elementary-school cafeteria. Somehow, temporary became forty years.

The children gave my life meaning. Their small problems helped mend parts of me I thought would remain broken.

Yet every spring, I opened the cedar box.

My corsage was still there.

Michael’s boutonniere was not.

That missing flower felt like the final word of a sentence I had never been allowed to finish.

Then, one Thursday, a second-grader named Tori stepped away from the lunch line.

Without explaining, she placed an old white-rose boutonniere in my palm.

“It must be with you,” she whispered.

Then she returned to her classmates.

The flower matched my corsage perfectly.

My knees weakened, and I ended up on the cafeteria floor. The school nurse wanted me to rest, but after waiting forty years, I refused.

When lunch ended, a young woman appeared in the doorway.

“My name is Rebecca,” she said. “I’m Tori’s mother.”

For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.