I remember receiving my first Valentine card. I’d be somewhere around age 9. I was in my room when I heard something slip in through the door. Then I heard the gate click shut. A white envelope had been posted, and it was unsealed, just folded to hide the contents. My name on the front. I opened it. Inside was a piece of red paper. It had been cut into the shape of a heart, folded in half with the long part folded again so it would fit the envelope. It read “to the lovely Room, from someone Coles” and there were four kisses. I laughed, it was the loveliest thing! Owen Coles was the most handsome boy I’d ever known. Twinkling eyes. An enormous smile. He had sent ME a piece of red paper. Cut it out himself. Written it himself. Posted it himself.
He has passed on from this world now. And I will never, ever, forget him. I will never forget how his smile could literally light you up. And not just because I was in love with him, but because he was that kind of person. Old, young, male, female, friends or strangers, everybody he met would fall a little bit in love with him. I will always be a little bit in love with him and I will never, ever, throw away that piece of red paper, or even its envelope.
This Valentine’s Day I do not expect to receive a card or even a piece of paper. I’m not sending a card either. But I will take a little trip down memory lane, remembering cards received before. I’ve kept them so I might even dig them out. They’re beautifully tacky things, one of them is padded (and in a box!) and one is enormous, but they remind me of fun times, when love’s young dream made efforts to sneak declarations of love to one another. There is something to be cherished from the youthful, carefree but utterly bold, and meant, declaration of ‘love’.
Go on. Take a trip down the lane. Who did you send a card to? Who sent you a card? Who did you wish had sent you a Valentine? Did any dreams come true?
Just for a moment, let’s dip into a bit of escapism - it’s restful in here!
The room above the garage
A Moodscope member.
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