Never was I so happy that my mother had long feet as the week before Valentine’s Day. Mrs. Strand sent us home from Washington Elementary to retrieve a shoe box. I opened the closet to my mother’s neatly stacked 11 narrows and my heart raced.
I sat with my beautiful box from Herberger’s atop my desk. I felt badly for those with only sizes seven or eight. Of course we’d all get the same amount. We were told to make Valentine’s for everyone in the class. But in my large box, none would have to be shoved, or damaged.
We spent hours the day before. Well, some of us did. A lot of the boys finished in five minutes. I took my time. Cutting each heart, in reds and pinks and whites. Folding strips of paper to make springs, so the hearts could leap (just as mine felt with all this craft paper.) Never was I so prepared to receive all the “be mines,” as I was with my mother’s shoe box. And how appropriate that she gave me the vessel, as she was the one who taught me to love.
Yesterday, making the cookies, the springs of my heart jumped throughout our French kitchen. I graded the frosting from white to pink to red. I applied the decorations. My love could not be rushed, shoved or damaged. My mother saw to that. Sees to it still.
“We just save all our good dreaming for the daytime,” she said, as I sat with my mother at the breakfast table, each of us offering up the nightmare from the wee hours before. We’d laugh through the fog of the ones we were still in, eat our breakfast, wash our faces, and begin again.
Smarter people have tried to figure out why we dream what we do. It’s funny, even when you know they aren’t real, when you know they didn’t happen, the feeling from it can remain for minutes, for hours, some even longer. Oh, feelings…
So when I have a good one, a good dream at night, well, that is something to be celebrated! And it happened two nights ago. It was only a brief visit to my grandma’s house, walking in with all of my cousins. Grandma Elsie said she had a surprise for us. Past the kitchen, round the corner, into the living room. A sea of Christmas presents. Presents of red and green piled higher than the tree that still tried to blink its way through. Higher than the television that played Rudolph at full volume. Higher than the smell of tobacco from Grandpa’s pipe that lingered in a Christmas color haze on the ceiling. Higher than my heart had ever reached in this farm house of theirs.
It’s probably too easy to interpret as all the gifts they gave us. But that’s what I’m going to do.
Still high from the night, we got coffee and went antique shopping in Arizona. My Valentine bought a beautiful necklace for me. Of course I had dressed for the occasion, (the occasion of a new day) — my mother had taught me that too. The woman behind the counter helped me with the clasp and told me I looked like a model. There I was, with the one I love, in mid compliment, high again. It’s true, what my mother said. Even after the best night-dream I’ve had in a very long time, the life I am living is even better.
We started making our boxes about a week before the 14th. Covering former shoe boxes with pink and red hearts. Tin foil to add texture and shape. Folding strips of paper to make springs so the hearts would jump (almost) from the box. Anything to make our Valentine mail boxes stand out. Get noticed. Cutting a hole in the cover — awaiting our special deliveries. It was Valentine’s Day at Washington Elementary. And we did everything we could to encourage the love.
Our mothers bought us packets of premade Valentines to give to the class, but we made hearts with our hands to give to those we truly loved. We were supposed to give a Valentine to each classmate. I’d like to think we did, but I don’t think so. Even with the purest hearts of youth, it’s hard to get everything right.
I’m still working on my Valentine carrier — my heart — I suppose we need to, every day. No longer to get noticed, but just to be open, to receive. And with my chubby, unsure fingers, I cut and paste and create, in my own imperfect way, and give to the one I love. I fold these words, to spring from my heart – Happy Valentine’s Day!
I can’t remember not loving you.Yet, you look at me, and it feels as though we just met. How do you do that… live through the colorful and messy seasons of my heart, and arrive each day as Spring?You are as constant and surprising, as warm, as hopeful as Spring… and I joyfully live in the beauty of it all. It’s a beautiful thing, this love… and I do love you. I really mean it. Not in the diluted way as those words are so often scattered, like “have a nice day,” … not like that. I love you. Until I felt it for you, I don’t think I knew what it meant… and I’m certain I never really heard those words, really heard them, until you said them to me.You made fresh these words…. sculpted and stroked the same letters, until they fit perfectly into this empty space in my heart, and filled it. I guess that’s a lot of responsibility to put on these words of love… I know they need to be supported… and I’m good with that… something this precious deserves that kind of attention…and you have mine! You have me…all of me…I wish that didn’t include my flaws, but it does. I know I make mistakes… but I don’t believe in movie lines like “never having to say you’re sorry”… I need to say a lot of things…“I’m sorry” … “please forgive me”… and “I’ll try to do better.” I want to be the best person I can be, for you, and for me… for this world. I want to do better, be better – you continue to bring that out in me.You’re such a good person – a loving person. I just want to be near you… with you. It’s a crazy thing this love… to feel someone’s heart beating in your own… and still not be close enough… Wow! It’s fun to love you. I love to hear you laugh. I love to feel your smile. I’ve seen your eyes sparkle when you look at me – ME – and I still can hardly believe it… but I guess the thing is, I do believe it… I believe you love me too. What an honor to share this love. I’m so proud of it… of you… I want everyone to see…and how could they not…it’s a BIG LOVE !I love you. Consider love’s repetition a path…the words are markers on this journey. I love you. I want to travel in it, through it… whatever life brings. And I mean whatever… I love you when you’re happy. To be a part of that joy, is indescribable… but it’s OK if you’re sad sometimes…you’re not made of stone…. and I love that…. I love that you feel things… that you can be moved to tears… it makes me trust your smile. It makes me trust your heart. Your beautiful heart….I love that you made room in it, just for me… and that you expand it every day. In your heart, I am never alone. I knew it the day we met… I knew if I could live in your heart, it would be amazing…and it is…you are!!!! I love you. Though I love to hear you say it back, this one is just for you…it’s complete on its own. I love you. It’s for you… about you… I’m in love with YOU!“I love you,” – as big as the meaning, these words are too small to hide behind… What we say and what we do, will always show through. I hope my actions match what you deserve ….you deserve someone to be nice to you all the time…to be thoughtful, caring, tender, understanding, fun, joyful, kind….you deserve to be loved. I want to love you that way. Look at you….you are someone to be loved. Look at you…I can’t help but love you. I look I at you and I want to tell you what I remember about our first kiss. I want to tell you that you are morningtime. You are afternoons. You are rest. I want to touch your face and tell you that I believe in you. I want to put your hand to my heart, so you’ll believe all of it is true. I want to tell you that I like you… that I’m drawn to you… that I think about the things you say, that I value your opinion, and I trust your instincts. I want to tell you that you make lunches special and Tuesdays holidays. You make real moments of moments. I want to tell you that I feel lucky to know you…so lucky that you know me, that you know my name, that I’m so grateful to hear you call it, whisper it. I want to share with you how your heart pillows to mine, and I am home. I want to tell you that I pray Hemingway was right, that there “will always be the Spring…” All these feelings rush through my heart and my veins and my brain. The words race to my mouth, but three always win out… I just hope that you can know them all, feel them all, as I speak the words, “I” and “love” and “you.”
