The Valentine

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The Valentine


Rush, New York, February 14, 2011

Mary Grace opened the yellowing envelope carefully; it gave way easily with seams that no longer adhered and corners worn by years of handling. Gently pushing it apart with her left hand, she reached in and grabbed the card inside.

The card was single-ply with a picture of two fawns bumping noses.

Be a Deer and Be My Valentine

She smiled at the sentiment of a six-year-old boy from decades past whose simple love and care reached across time to touch her heart.

Luv, Anthony Macaluso

She swallowed and blinked back tears. The most precious thing she could ever point to in a very troubled childhood. She recalled with fondness and only a tiny bit of residual sadness the day she received the treasure.

“My Mom says I hafta give everybody a Valentine,” the boy said. You don’t hafta keep it if you don’t wanna.” A hand reached over.

“But even if I didn’t hafta give you one, I would. I like you a lot.” He stepped closer, looking for all the world, as they say, as if he was about to bestow a kiss.

The boy was shooed away by a very kind and well meaning teacher who merely reflected how things were back then. The woman grabbed the Valentine and shook her head no. Innocence interrupted in a way as the woman returned to the front of the classroom and placed the card on her desk. Thankfully the day was nearly over, and the card was retrieved later while the teacher was pre-occupied with getting coats and galoshes and hats all sorted out on a cold afternoon in February.

“What you did, Anthony?” She shook her head as she stared down at the card. The pencil was nearly faded, but overwritten several times in ink; each time the hand was steady until recently when pens became shaky even if memory was as steady as always.

“You…I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Anthony Macaluso.”

She blinked back tears over the memory of a boy who made the supreme difference in her life. And who made a supreme sacrifice on behalf of companions years ago in a rice paddy a whole world away. She shook her head and smiled even as the tears flowed; a yearly ritual that was dreaded and welcomed at the same time. The stains from crying over the years added character to the fading card; almost like the patina on the birch backing of a Martin guitar or the brown stains on the bottom of a favorite coffee mug.

She sighed as she remembered the boy from so long ago; forever etched in her memory as a six year old with red hair and big green, caring eyes. He and his family moved away that summer, and she never saw him again. Only in reading in the paper had she learned of his fate. The boy became a man who loved enough not to love his own life too much, as some would say. Not a surprise, when he loved enough to give a Valentine that made her life complete so many years ago.

“Mom says to give everybody one…so nobody will know, okay?” The soft, tentative voice spoke from beyond the pale as if the little boy stood before her at that moment.

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” the boy would say afterwards. It never became trouble because no one ever knew other than the teacher who spared them both. A hastily confiscated card ‘accidentally’ left unattended to be retrieved when nobody was looking. She peered down at the card and noticed, of course, that fresh tear stains graced the paper. Ironic, she thought, remembering her middle name.

“Mary Grace…actually Mary Graziano Forte.” She spoke it quietly to herself, but the voice was still heard.

“He must have been something special,” the man who sat across from her in the rocker; he didn’t look up since it was a ritual for her that spanned decades, predating even their thirty years together. The words spoke more of an acknowledgment of her history rather than a question; another opportunity to thank God for the love of a boy who was blind in all the best ways with otherwise perfect vision. She looked at the card once again and then up at her husband. The cards he gave her over the years were just as special; each tea rose or carnation or dinner out had just as much importance in her life, if in a completely different context.

“I should get another envelope for this.” Something she would say every year and then forget; not in forgetfulness, but because to replace the envelope would be, perhaps, to lose the most important part of the treasure, even if it was faded and yellowed with age. She read the card once more before placing in the envelope.

Be a Deer and Be My Valentine

Luv, Anthony Macaluso

She slipped the card into the envelope and folded the flap carefully before turning to look at the front one last time until the next Valentine’s Day one year hence; blessed by another year's worth of tears.  

To Joey Graziano
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Comments

Valentine

A sweet entry, Andrea. :)

Lisa

Small treasures

are often the best and the strongest and most treasured gifts of all!

Vivien

Sweet and Sorrowful

This was truly from your heart Andrea. Very nice!

You had me in tears with this one.

Maybe, in some future, both of them can reincarnate in such a way that they can be in a life together - the way that they had wanted to be.

One can always hope.

Sephrena

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Sweet and lovely...

Maren Sorensen's picture

As befits yourself m'dear.

Though I found it to be heartwarming in a life changing sort of way rather than sad. After all, both friends lived to fulfill their destinies, and each mirrored the other in their bravery to fulfill their lives as they were meant to be. One was a brave little boy and man and the other a brave little boy who became a woman.

Maren

Twice loved

Mary is lucky. She was twice loved. First by Joey, and then by her husband of 30 years. He is a true love supporting her need to look at that card, and understanding.

Rami

RAMI

"Be a Deer and Be My Valentine"

What a boy. And then he lost his life saving others ...

ach. no fair, Tante, your story made me cry!

DogSig.png

What a...

...powerful little tale in a most understated form. This kind of sneaks up on you and smacks you in the heart in a most loving manner. Brava!!!

Yer Brat

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Absolutely...

Beautiful. So much emotion packed into a snippet of a life...

Thank you!

Abby

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Oh Drea my dear...

I simply can't read your stories at work anymore. I find myself having to explain red eyes and hiding tears from coworkers. This one had me at the beginning, so sad and beautiful. Innocence and love at a young age preserved forever, a gesture that gave another strength to live. Tearful smiles, Jenn.


I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair

Sweet Reminiscence

terrynaut's picture

This is a sweet, happy-sad short story.

The boy was blind in all the best ways, as everyone should be.

Thanks and kudos.

- Terry

Perhaps Pilaf?

Due to health issues I am limited to the methods and lenght of time of seeking my pleasures these days. The writings of Andrea is one of those pleasures I classify under the sub-heading 'Extremely'. Her themes and revelations are ones that I can often relate to quite easily and I always tend to pause and think back to that portion of my life.

But my reading today brought back events in my life that I had hoped to keep buried in the deepest and darkest recesses of my mind. I remember those rice paddys. I remember the 'Parrots Beak'. I remember zone D, Rung Sat and dozens of other little patches of 'paradise' where direct connections for the next bus to the after life could be arrange on a wholesale basis.

It has been a long time since those days and some of the faces are a clear as yesterday while others, unfortunately, have faded. I believe that any of us who were there made the supreme sacrifice regardless of our physical outcome. Some of us still believe we would have been better off having our names on that stone wall than to have suffered a lifetime of the memories; the horrors human beings are capable of perpetrating against one another.

Somehow being called a fag (today, as a matter of fact) seemed comical; indeed I laughed. I had spent several hours crying over the dead (physically and mentally) and, with the help of a milligram of Xanax (prescribed), was able to leave my home for a short walk with the assistance of a dear friend. We were discussing Andrea's 'The Valentine' when the epithet was hurled with all the force of a flechette only to bounch off us like a feather. In fact, had I the strength to run up to the hurler, I would have said; "Yes, I am a fag." And I would have proceeded to kiss him with a lightness of heart and a gentleness of spirit. I have survived far worse and, for a mere few moments, felt good about that fact.

Thank you for those few moments Andrea. I can always count on your astute insights and your extraordinary way of stating the obvious so lucidly, so profoundly, and so very humanly. :)

Viral Visitor

Sniffle, sniffle....

Nice one Andrea! Sad & sweet at the same time. Big Hugs, Taarpa

"Drea, you made my cry, this one as so intense

And though emotionally it was a sentimental sledgehammer I was most impressed by the subtleties.

The bit about the tracing the handwriting impling she is now elderly or ailing or both.

The brief mention she has been married 30 years. And that this likely happened some time after she learned of her long ago valetines death.

The unfeeling teacher who was anything but with hindsight. The potential lovers torn apart by time, distance and fate yet she remembers and her husband understands.

Damned tear jerker.

Bet you learned your craft from the folks who wrote the death scene of the mom in Disney's Bambi.

If there is reincarnation I'd say these two were often lovers in past and future lives. And you just HAD to throw in how the boy who became a handsome man sacrificed his life to save others.

Meanie. "Drea.

You are one of a select group here who can condense a tale down to it's essence with not a word wasted.

I wish I was half this good.

John in Wauwatosa

John in Wauwatosa

moving

Very moving.... You really see, and even more feel, it happening.

You know, I always saved all cards (not only the valentine ones) I got from special people. In my bedroom there is a big closet, and on the top shelf there is this collection of cards. And every now and then I take them out and read them. From friends, classmates, ancient loves and collegues, mom and dad and other relatives. Some alive, some long since dead. But they bring beautiful moments back to life.
Well, perhaps this made me a little bit sensitive to a story like this...
Thanks for writing it!

Karin