St. Valentine's has always been my patron. The one annual figure stronger than the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, or even Santa. When I was young he lived in my mind as Cupid, as I got older his mythology enlarged to such a point that invoking him meant hope renewed. It will take an army to confront you with your own folly at being a hopeless romantic, believe me. And it will take that army years to make you admit that you are melancholy for it.
I can still clearly remember the crunch from the first bite into one of those heart shaped hard candies in ECLC. I don't think they make them anymore though, small pastel colored hard sugar with words like: love, sweetie, hearts, and cute pressed into them. Pressed into their hearts as it were. Then there was the first Valentine's card I ever received from my thoughtful mother, replete with hearts and glitter, as well. Shortly followed by cards from my two older sisters. It was a heady time--a child reveling in that first kind of innocent love. Red, white, and pink clothes de rigeur.
I remember a parade of Valentine's days--the countless botched Valentine's attempts of my youth in fact. Those I will share another time. What I want to recall is a particular Valentine's gift. The most important Valentine's Day Roses I had ever received--from my own sister--during one of those High School Send A Rose To Someone's Classroom Drives. I had never even considered being the recipient of roses throughout High School. Romance was for others, for me it was a hidden pain and an unrequited dream. Ditchie's gift of roses in 4th period Algebra during my sophomore year made me blush, but it taught me a valuable lesson. That perhaps the thoughtful love freely given by an older sister is the kind of love you should bring to the woman who accepts you. I took that lesson too deeply upon leaving High School I think. It also made me realize that being jealous of her having boyfriends was uncalled for. It made me realize that out of all of us, her brand of love was the best.
I also remember how Valentine's day was a secret link between my mother and myself in the past--she would make it a point to leave unique gifts for me every Valentine's day to find as I grew up. The most memorable being a combination lock for my school locker that had a pink heart for a cover. I wasn't able to use it though, it didn't fit properly. This may have set a trend I think. I think in her heart she could never truly let me go as her Valentine and my abrupt severing of that link broke her heart. I should have used that lock to keep those memories safe. Instead, growing up I added childhood photos to Valentine's gifts to a parade of women, photos which she had kept safe in a rosewood chest for her own heart. Photos of a young smiling me as a child.
Be my Valentine.
What is it to be a Valentine? What is it to deliver up what you feel for someone in words, cards, flowers, chocolates, and stuffed toys? What is it to be truly be alive on February 14? More importantly what is it to take out one day of the year and spend it with someone who you willingly give your self to? At what level, though, and at what cost?
This is the longest period that I have been officially single in my life. Being single is being honest, yet I feel that I am not being who I am meant to be...well that I believe anyhow...which is being a husband and a partner...which makes me sad, especially on this day.
Today I choose instead to be your Valentine. I will not say it. But I will leave cards for you to find and be encouraged. I will be here when you start falling in love. I will be here for when Cupid takes aim and misses.
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