For My Valentine, With Love.

Dear Babe,

I used to think that Valentine’s Day was made up of a measurable formula. Gifts + Dinner + Grand Gestures = Love appropriately demonstrated. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a day for reality or bills or bickering or understatement. It was a day of theatrics and pink and hearts.

You used to tell me that it was all a scam; that every day was Valentine’s Day. You told me the greatest gift you could give me was your last name – our last name. I knew it was true; of course, I’m (usually) not the kind of person that things matter to. Still, every year I couldn’t help but keep my eyes peeled for a surprise bouquet or shiny package or a little velvet jewelry box. I should have known that it was far more important for you to make every day Valentine’s Day.

Now I know the truth. It didn’t take me long. I was always just a bit behind you with the bigger picture.

It was Valentine’s Day every time you called me just to say you couldn’t wait to see me that night.

It was Valentine’s Day every time you held my hand when I was scared.

It was Valentine’s Day every morning when you would kiss my forehead and tell me how beautiful I was.

It was Valentine’s Day when you sat next to me at every single doctor’s appointment. You would make me laugh in between blood draws and tell me how much we would make our kids pay for it.

It was Valentine’s Day every time I saw you with Olivia or Matthew.

It was Valentine’s Day when we spent the first night in our new home, dancing across the floors, the record player the only furniture.

It was even Valentine’s Day on that very last day. To end our love story with an “I love you” and a prayer. And gratitude. That I was yours and you were mine. Through Earth and time and soul.

This year, you won’t be with me in this world, but you will still, and always, be my Valentine.

Love,

Amanda