The day before Valentine’s Day I went to the grocery before dinner, realizing I had forgotten to buy gifts to go with the cards I’d purchased at the other store a mile up the road. As I headed toward the entrance, a steady stream of men came through the sliding glass doors, each bearing the kind of cellophane-wrapped bundle that every woman loves to see. Inside the store the flower cones graced every display from the produce department to the muffins to the meat counter, though the men hovered thickest in the floral department proper, collecting custom orders or picking out plants or tchotchkes to supplement the bouquet they’d painstakingly selected. Some of the men looked like they were enjoying themselves, while others seemed harassed, or uncertain in their decision. I wondered about the women on the receiving ends of all these flowers … wives, mothers, sisters, lovers … friends? Did their men know them well enough, pay close enough attention, to pick out just the right combination to make their hearts sing? Or is any grand gesture a little bit of a gamble on both ends of the game, a little bit beauty is in the eye of the beholder and well, it’s the thought that counts?
I saw the bouquet I’d pick, if the choice were up to me; muted colors of old-fashioned flowers that have no business being alive in North America this time of year. Contraseasonality doesn’t come cheap, though. I guess I can wait ’til my summer garden blooms.
They say you shouldn’t go to the store hungry. As I wound my way through the maze of displays, trying not to bash my basket into anyone else’s, I found myself thinking of egg rolls, and you, and knew I’d be just as happy sitting on the floor eating takeaway from little paper boxes as I would be gussied up at a classy restaurant, as long as there was good company to sit beside me slurping noodles and laughing. And brownie sundaes for dessert. Maybe I would get fancy and cut them in the shape of a heart. Maybe I’d add sprinkles. (Probably they’d be a box mix.) But I’d let you spray the whipped cream right into your mouth from the can, if you wanted to.
After that we’d sit and talk and laugh some more, I expect, or play board games — maybe watch The Princess Bride. I don’t know; what do people do when they feel absolutely safe with each other, at home and comfortable in the mystery of loving and being loved? (Maybe we’d fall asleep on the couch. Maybe even start snoring.)
At the store I stood for a moment in the card aisle, searching for a To my husband card that my mom could give my dad. More men were gathered around the displays, looking for their own pitch-perfect sentiments. I looked through several selections, laughed, then put them back on the rack in favor of something that sounded more grown-up and sincere. But I know I’d always get you the funny card, the one with the food joke or dinosaur or weird-looking dog on the front and the quirky funny shy Iloveyou inside. Because who can ever say all they feel?
I don’t remember what I used to wish Valentine’s Day with you could be like. I don’t remember whether I ever wished anything beyond the fact of a you. By next year I’ll likely have forgotten the takeaway eggrolls, and instead once more will be wondering how many bags of potting soil I need for starting my summer seeds. In February there are always seeds to dream about. And those kinds of dreams, I’ve found, come true.
