Thankfully I’ve never cared much for Valentine’s Day so today wasn’t as hard as it could have been. In 36 years I’ve only “celebrated” or observed it 6 times–all of them with her–so it’s not like there’s a long tradition there to uphold or miss.
It’s just any other day. The same as all the others that have now been abandoned. And thankfully now the pressure’s off to appear to give a shit about such an overblown day.
That being said, I remember the exact moment I fell in love with her. And that’s all I could think about all day. I wish I could rewind the years back to that spot and just relive those couple of hours at her apartment eight or nine years ago when she cooked me steak and zucchini with onions and we talked about writing and books and her stories. She vibrated with life when she talked about writing; her hands and voice literally shook with her passion for the stories and worlds and lives she had created. And she shared them with me. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in my life at that point.
I would live in that moment for the rest of my life–even if nothing ever advanced, even if it meant we never had a relationship–just to see her so alive, just to know she was happy and sharing something that brought her so much joy with someone who truly loved her talent and dedication to her art. I think it was the happiest I’ve ever seen her–except for the day my youngest son love-tackled her in the back yard and snuggled on top of her beside our buckets of tomato plants.
My perfect Valentine’s Day–my perfect any day–would be to have those moments all over again.
But mostly I wish we could go back to then so she could be that happy, that much herself and alive again.
My perfect Valentine’s Day–my perfect any day–would be to know that she’s found that passion and happiness again.
Even if it’s without me.
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