What's A Valentine?

 “Wow, it’s St. Valentines’ Day tomorrow.  My teacher said we’re going to make cards for our Valentine.  I don’t have a Valentine.  Mom, what’s a Valentine?”

“A Valentine is someone you are very fond of and who you feel is special.”

“There’s nobody in my class like that.  The girls make fun of me and the boys are silly.”

“What about your teacher?”

“She doesn’t like me.  Yesterday I had a clothespin on my ear again for talking in class.” 

“What about Stanley?  Don’t you sit next to him?”

“Yea.  Stanley is funny. I like him but he wouldn’t want to be my Valentine.”

“How do you know if you don’t ask?”  

On the way to school the following day while Dad was driving her to school, she broached the subject with him.  Thinking it would be a good idea to get a man’s opinion since it had to do with boys.

“Daddy today is Valentine’s Day.  My teacher says we’re gonna make cards and give them to somebody so we can be Valentines.  Daddy, what’s a Valentine?”

“It’s just another money-making scheme to sell stuff to poor saps who spend money on cards and flowers and chocolate to avoid a night in the doghouse.”

Years later I was actually grateful for Dad’s cynicism when it guarded me from feeling left out because Cupid failed to deliver a dozen long-stemmed roses on February 14th.  One year in particular stands out.  

I was working for a large corporation located at 375 Park Avenue.  Every time the elevator door opened on the ninth floor with a pinging ring the response of my female coworkers could only be called Pavlovian.  It was the least romantic bit of drama I had ever witnessed. 

As the workday progressed, I surveyed how these flaunted gifts of jewelry and flowers were forged into fiery darts before my private eyes.  Is this what Pat Benatar meant when she belted out “Love is a Battlefield?”  The reactions of the women who did not exhibit love loot ranged from indifferent to desperate.  

One dear heart actually sent herself flowers.   Such was her agony. The torment of femmes-fatales feigning astonishment over levied tribute on a corner of the desk that allowed for maximum exposure was too excruciating.  Thank heavens she did not sink to the level of attaching a stuffed animal.  Thanks to Dad, I was already envisioning Snoopy in his white clapboard doghouse.  

Shortly after my mom passed away, I found a Valentine’s Day card I made to give to her.  It had a lit candle drawn with crayon burning brightly.  “To the best Mother in the whole world,” I’d written, “my flame won’t go out.”  On the inside, for some reason, I added, “I’m not a hard-boiled egg.”  She saved it and it moved me to pen these few lines below.

Traces of your enchanting face linger lovingly in my soul today. 

Red ribbons spiraling on a windy day remind me you’re a world away.      

Swirling gifts of silk and lace twirl like paisley through time and space.  

Cinnamon, clove, nutmeg and mace you made our home a magic place.   

Your intrigue and naivete always revealed a better way.

Yvonne A.

2.13.21