After that I never expected anything on Valentine's Day. In truth, I didn't want over-priced roses or chocolates that I couldn't eat anyway, and I outgrew stuffed animals about twenty years ago. When people asked about why we didn't "celebrate" I told them that we loved each other every day of the year and didn't need one day to show it by buying each other objects.
The first Valentine's Day that we lived together he came home from work with a card for me. The card was designed for a teacher, but he'd handwritten in his own criteria under "teacher's report card." I cried when I opened and read it. I cried because it was unexpected, simple, sweet. I cried because I hadn't planned anything since we hadn't acknowledged the past four Valentine's Days. I felt inadequate. I learned later that his Staff Sergeant who was close to retirement and had been married just as long as he'd been enlisted, had driven him home from work, stopped at a store to buy something for his wife, and ordered my husband to get something for me. I could picture him filling out the card on his knee in the car as he'd done so many times for others in my passenger seat.
From the time I learned to read I always took cards seriously. My extended family would become exasperated as I sounded out every syllable of every word, working my way through the card before meticulously sliding paper off presents. Buying cards was and still is an equally involved process in which I read just about every card on the display and decide none of them are right. I often waste hours in the store trying to find one that seems right, usually beginning the process weeks in advance so I don't feel pressured to purchase something that doesn't work well.
I started saving cards when I was seven and hospitalized. I had a giant bag of sentiments that I took out and re-read, sorted, and categorized by colors and designs. After encouragement from my mother during one of our yearly cleanses of the toy room I threw them all away, an action I would regret for years after. I do still collect cards, although I'm less careful about keeping every one.
When I was conducting a massive purging of my apartment earlier this summer I combed through my card piles from things that were stored at my parents house and in my home now. I decided to discard every holiday card addressed to both my husband and I-- all the cutesy couple cards about how we make a great pair sent at Christmas and on our anniversary. I also uncovered every card my husband ever gave to me, including the one from Valentine's Day six years ago. They were mostly birthday and anniversary cards with some for Saint Patrick's Day. Of all the things I've gotten rid of these past few months, the cards were the most emotional. It wasn't enough to just pile them into the recycling bin. I opened each card and re-read all of his hand-written notes before ripping them individually into shreds. In doing so, I felt as if I was ripping away layers of the past I didn't know I was still carrying around with me. I gave myself permission to cry and to mourn the loss of a relationship I thought would grow old with me. After I'd torn up the last card I shoved the shards into a manila envelope and deep into the recycling bin beneath the piles of other papers I'd already sorted through. It's amazing how much weight these cards were holding against my heart and how freeing it was to let them go forever.
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