That day is coming; that one I’ve always dreaded. It was cute at first. Flowers and chocolate and lacy froo-froo cards found their way into my hands from boys with sweet intentions. Boys grew into men and still there were flowers and cards. Once there was a live rose from a man who didn’t believe in cut flowers. It was always a day to look forward to, like a birthday or Christmas. Once upon a time, it was a day to feel special.
I don’t remember when the charm of the day died. It may be that it drizzled away slowly, just another one of the pitfalls of being an adult. Work and time and money all conspired against the day of hearts and flowers. Gestures still passed between us; a box of candy or a card.
I want the make-a-tissue-paper-covered-shoebox for school kind of excitement back. Maybe I’ll make my own card this year. I’ll get some of those jumbo Crayolas, the kind that fit in your hand really well. I’ll need some construction paper: pink, red and white and maybe even purple. Of course, that means I need school scissors and white glue and paper doilies. If you’re going to do a thing, you’d best do it right.
I’ll draw hearts and clouds and arrows. I’ll take my time and use a ruler to measure it all out if I need to. And with bright colored crayons and lots of patience, maybe I’ll even stay inside the lines. I’ll write a pretty verse all my own. No leaving my fate in the hands of Hallmark this year. No way.
And the more I think of it, I have to wonder. It could well be that the problem with Valentine’s day all along, was in my own heart.