The Valentine

My father gone. 

Not forever gone,

but gone to troubleshoot

at a faraway mill.

How proud I was.

My father could fix what no one else could.

I didn’t miss him, exactly,

week following week.

In his absence, the house felt easier,

more friendly.

If my brother or mother missed him,

they didn’t say.

But then the most astonishing thing.

A small package arrived.

A valentine. 

For me.

From my father!

It was—I can see it clearly still—

a red cardboard heart,

a box in the center.

Inside the box,

a heart-shaped bottle.

Blue Waltz perfume!

So many hearts.

From my father.

For me!

He came home one day, of course,

though I remember nothing of that.

I do remember, though,

the cardboard Valentine

taped to the inside of my bedroom door.

And I remember the way,

year following year,

the red heart faded

to a dull pink.

The way, too,

I doled the too-sweet perfume

in loving droplets

to wrist,

to wrist,

to throat.

Each time,

it was almost as though

my father himself

touched me.

Photo by micheile henderson on Unsplash‍ ‍