The day Neil and I skipped classes was the day he gave me the bouquet of flowers. The same bouquet of flowers that remained suspended upside down in our dorm window, the stems tied together by twine, until they were wilted, and then with time, completely dried of any life.
"Flowers? For me?"
"Not just any kind of flowers," Neil replied. He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, a gesture he often did. "Forget-me-nots, in the hopes that if I'm lucky enough, you'll never forget about me." He grinned then, his big goofy grin, proud of his clever gift.
"Neil Perry, I don't think I could forget you if I tried."
And it was true. I had tried. I tried my very best to forget about the glory that was Neil Perry. Yet as I placed the fresh flowers on his grave on the three year anniversary of his death, I came to my annual conclusion that I never would forget about Neil. I never could.
I fixed the bouquet, rearranging the flowers until I was content with the presentation. Satisfied, I stood back up, and sighed deeply.
Not just any kind of flowers, I thought to myself, Forget-me-nots.
Forget-me-not, Neil.