Myosotis
a genus of flowering plants in the family Boraginaceae (or Cynoglossum family) that are commonly called forget-me-nots.

Gran had always been a bit of a kook. I think that was why she was my favorite grandparent. She was always smiling, laughing, telling me all types of stories, feeding an imagination that was destined to grow out of control and drove my mum mad. Stories from the stars, of adventure and friendship and bravery. I would sit and listen for hours. Gran was the one to always remind me just how special I was… Even if I was inclined to disagree with her now and then. But she thought that of her loved ones. We were all special- extraordinary even. She was a bit modest, herself, but they way she would look at me made me feel like I was the most important girl in the universe. Not that she'd let that go to my head or anything. But she wouldn't let me forget it, either. Looking back now, I realize I should've tried a bit harder to make her feel the same.

When Grandad passed, that's when we noticed Gran's mind start to go. She was never the same afterwards... neither was my mum. But Gran needed looking after, and my mum and I just couldn't provide it. At this time in my life, I had a ring on my finger and a man waiting for me at home every night. I had responsibilities, bills to pay, and meetings to go to. But I made sure to visit her as often as possible when she was in the home. She liked it, from what I could tell. Never complained- only the occasional mean snipe or bit of gossip about the other tenants. But she'd always been quite friendly, especially in her youth. She would have fit in anywhere we'd sent her. Gran was just one of those people who could make anyone her friend, eventually.

My visits were routine. Tea, talk, then time to go. She'd greet me like I had only been gone a minute. I'd tell her about my day, she'd tell me about her's. She'd ask me about school, even though I graduated years ago. I'd make sure she had her medicine, speak briefly with whatever staff member I could find (they smile tightly and nod when I tell them to take special care of her- I suppose they must get that a lot), and head back home to prepare supper and finish whatever work I had that day.

Then, on a very regular weekday visit, the strangest of things happened… I was wearing a new dress, one my husband had picked out. Quite proud, and feeling flattered by it, I asked her if she liked it. She got the oddest expression on her face and murmured, "Blue…" Well, yes, the dress was blue. But a color should never have the effect on someone that that blue dress had on her. I watched her eyes- which had become statically glossy in the past few years- water and droop in a forgotten sadness I myself had never experienced.

And that's when her little obsession started. She began to ask everyone (and I do mean everyone), "Have you seen the blue box?"

It was the most peculiar question. I tried imagining a context where it would make sense. Had she lost a package while moving? Perhaps it referred to a present of some sort? A parcel in the mail? What most confused me was her use of 'the' before blue box. Why the definite article? Why not 'a' blue box? None of it made sense, but then again, things that Gran said generally didn't. Even before her old age.

And even though mum discouraged it, I played along. The doctors all said it was alright. It was just her mind… It was an obvious sign of her disease. But Gran was most alert- most like her old self- when we talked about the blue box.

So I'd reply, "No, where did you leave it?"

"...I can't seem to remember, love!" she proclaimed with that laugh of her's. Sometimes she'd just drop it then, but sometimes she'd go on, asking if I could bring the blue box next time.

So I would...

Or at least, I tried. I had no idea what blue box she could possibly be talking about! She'd never specify what was in the blue box, either, just that she wanted a blue box. At first, I'd bring her these little cardboard gift boxes you could find in any knick-knack shop, as that was what came to my mind when she said "blue box."

But she'd tell me, "No, no, no… Close. But, no." or "Not that blue. It's more of a blue-blue."

When I realized she was most lucid when being presented with a box (though of course, she'd slip into her normal confused stupor soon after), I made it my goal to bring her a new one every visit. For a few minutes, as she observed her little gifts from me, she was my gran again. The same woman who helped raise me and baked the best sweets at Christmas and always sat next to me at Sunday dinner.

So my search for blue boxes expanded. I spent more money than I'll ever admit to on these boxes. Work and even my homelife were occasionally neglected when I found a lead on a new box for my gran. Just as she was obsessed with finding that box, I was obsessed with bringing them to her.

I brought her plastic home-storage boxes; "No, bigger! But smaller, too."

Another time, I gave her this ratty crate I'd found near the bins, still damp from last night's rain; "No, it's not old enough! My box looks younger than that."

...Mum had to stop visiting after a while. She said it was too much to see her mother like that, and hoped it wouldn't be the same for her when she got to that age. From then on, I was my Gran's only visitor.

Her little room soon became covered in hues of blue. Every one of those boxes I brought her stacked about in the open, ranging from a tiny ring box, to a personal storage container I had parked outside her window ("How big is it on the inside?"). She kept every one, even though none were the one she was looking for, apparently.

"Have you seen the blue box around?" she greeted me on a particularly bad day.

If I still had my youthful bite in me, I might have sarcastically mentioned the room full of blue boxes she was sitting in. But I couldn't do that to Gran. I knew better. So, I handed her my latest pathetic find… it was just a book. I was a bit disappointed in myself, though I barely made my visit as is, so I hadn't had time to do a serious box-hunt. This had only just caught my eye through a window of a second-hand book store, literally on my way there. The blue was right this time, same blue as the dress which had started this mess. It was an old edition which had lost its dust jacket. I skimmed the inside, but only seemed to gather it was an ancient travel guide to Barcelona. So I figured, it being square and all, it would do for now.

A look of near amazement crossed her wrinkled face when I handed it to her. Everything was clear for a moment, and she looked me right in the eyes with complete recognition and declared, "This is the closest yet!" It broke my heart how happy she sounded.

"How so, Gran?" I asked nervously, my throat tightening to a choke.

"The blue's right… And look at this! It's old, but new, too!" New to her, I suspect. Though the book was old… It had that stench of aged paper about it. "And best of all!" she cheered, flipping the pages real quick with her thumb, "It's bigger on the inside!" Oh, she was positively giddy.

Even though it made no sense to me, she appeared to be in a clear state of mind. I can't quite remember the last time she was this focused... This much like her old self. Tears welled up in my eyes when I said, "That's great, Gran! We're almost there, aren't we?" And she grinned back at me with excitement.

Gran died a week later.

She dissolved... becoming too weak to function. It happened so quickly yet so slowly… Mum and I were there with her when she passed. It was her time, we realized. She went very peacefully, sleeping. Dreaming. It was painful yet comforting to me. I liked to think she was back with Grandad, or maybe going on those adventures she'd tell me about when I was a kid. Maybe she had her blue box back, too.

Mum wasn't in the right mind to handle the funeral arrangements, so I took care of most of that. We cleared out her room at the home. Most of those blue boxes were put in the trash. I kept a few though; a chunky, plastic makeup box, a box that a bottle of used, musty, almost wet-smelling perfume had come in, and that last book.

Maybe I'd take a trip to Barcelona one day. A trip would be nice.

Her funeral was a dreadfully small affair. Not many of the people who had known her were still around. I recognized almost every face which was there, though. Mostly family, a few workers who enjoyed her from the home (it was almost impossible not to enjoy Gran's company. Especially when she decided to revive a bit of her old sass!), and a couple of very old friends. There was only one person I didn't recognize... but saw Mum talking to him, so he must have known Gran and the family somehow.

Mum and I sat together quietly when the day was over. The sun was down, and we were sipping tea.

"Who was that man you were talking to earlier?" I asked, breaking a long block of silence. I had almost forgotten him altogether by then.

Mum looked thoughtful, "You mean the strange one from the ceremony?" I nodded, "Um, he was Mum's doctor, I think."

I nodded again, staring into my tea, "That was nice of him to show up. Don't figure many doctors would do that."

Mum shrugged, "He was a weird fellow. Quite sad about it all..."

"S'alright to be sad at a funeral, I suppose."

We let another comfortable silence overtake us. I thought about what I was to do with myself tomorrow, seeing as I wouldn't be visiting Gran… It was a bit odd, suddenly having that amount of free time. Not at all liberating, either. Maybe I could visit her grave.

"I never knew," I began thoughtfully picturing the cemetery's newest tombstone, "That Gran kept her maiden name after she married Grandad."

Mum laughed for the first time in days, "Oh, yeah. She was far too proud and stubborn. Never thought he minded though. Name's quite pretty, ain't it?"

I smiled and nodded. Gran did have a pretty name. "Noble. Donna Noble, eh?"