Valentine

My mom used to leave little surprises on our breakfast plates on Valentine’s Day. We’d run into the kitchen to find homemade cards or silly stories with candy bars standing in for some of the words. There would always be something extra on my dad’s plate—a card with a poem inside or a giant Hershey’s kiss. We’d eat pink heart-shaped pancakes before rushing off to school. This was in the 80s, even, before blogs and Pinterest made this sort of behavior seem mandatory.

Mom died on a Thursday. That Sunday was Valentine’s Day. On Saturday I realized there would be no surprises on our plates the next morning, so I pocketed some babysitting money and rode my bike to the “little store” near my elementary school. I picked out a small treat for each brother and a king-sized Hershey’s bar for my dad.

When I ducked into the kitchen early on Sunday to pass out the goodies, I saw that Dad had beaten me to it. There was a hand-written card and some candy at each of our seats.

I wish I had kept that card. I wish I could find every little valentine and poem he ever wrote me. But I did find this envelope, which I received in the mail on Valentine’s Day 2001, when I was twenty-five and living the single life in Salt Lake City.

At least there’s that.