Every year he sends me a valentine. My heart leaps when I see his font on the envelope.
I don’t remember exactly when he started sending them to me. Maybe when he had a wife of his own and understood better the demands of mothering and homemaking and how it can take a bit of a toll. Maybe when he moved to that far away zip code on the other side of the country. But for the last many years, they have come–each one bringing light and warmth to the February gray.
So I pulled down the street after a day of orthodontics and piano lessons. I opened the little green mailbox door and sorted through the stack and there it was! I did a little foot dance in the car and squealed, “He remembered! Woo Hoo! Here it is!”
I suppose it sounds a bit like a Hallmark commercial, but his cards are so much more than a letter in my mailbox. Each one brings back the memories of childhood, the two of us sitting at the kitchen table signing our school-kid valentines. Each one reminds me that he as there from the start . . . that he was the one I learned life with. And I remember him growing up: his guitar, his silhouette bent over the engine of a car, our cross country road trip on his way home from college.
I tell my boys that they simply must send their sisters valentines, even when they are all grown up. Especially when they are all grown up. Because hidden in that envelope will be love enough for their hearts to hold until they are together again.