Belated Valentine

Belated Valentine’s Day

         Henry swung his legs slowly out of bed; the cold of the tile floor sent shivers up his feet. At sixty-eight years of age, the morning seemed a little colder; it was a chill that came with age and had nothing to do with the weather. He took a deep breath and reached to the foot of the bed, picking up his old comfortable robe. He smiled when he touched it, remembering the day Helen had given it to him; it was crisp and new then. Never would he have imagined it becoming such a part of him. As he pulled the tattered robe on he remembered how Helen would wrap her arms around him as he walked into the kitchen for breakfast. Funny, he didn’t remember the days being so cold then; but that was many years ago. Slipping his feet into his house shoes, Henry made his way to the front door. The morning ritual involved walking a few paces down the steps to get the paper. It finished with him fixing a bowl of cereal.

         Pushing his bowl of cereal to the side, Henry spread the newspaper out on the table. Several pages into his reading he paused in his skimming as he read the bold header, “Valentine’s Message to Your Sweetheart.” He glanced to the upper corner and saw the date, February 14—Valentine’s Day. He smiled and thought of Helen. She was such a romantic. She was easily pleased—a silly little card, a single rose, a message written on the mirror with grease pencil. She was always thrilled and grateful when he did those little things which seemed so insignificant to him. He was so fortunate to have had her in his life. His eyes filled with tears as he realized once again that he missed her so very much, even now after all those years.

         Henry returned his misty gaze to the contents below the header. As he suspected, the written material consisted of short messages written to sweethearts for Valentine’s Day. He read a few. Some of them were simple and silly:

          “Roses are red, violets are blue; I’m in love with Fred; this is your darlin', Sue.”

         Some of the entries were very personal and quite touching.

          “Bert, you saved my life and brought love into my heart to stay. I love you—Sandy.”

         Down though the page he scanned, stopping at those messages that seemed promising. He shook his head at the silly ones and smiled at the tender ones. And then his eye froze on one of the messages near the end. His pulse began to race. He read and reread the message.

          “Henry, darling, you made my life complete. You brought meaning to my confusion. I love you more than I did the day I first met you; and I will love you forever. You will always be my Valentine.—Helen.”

         Henry slowly pushed back from the table, leaving the page opened to the message. His mind raced.

          “Could it be? No—no, it can’t be!”

         But there in print the words remained. He could hear Helen’s voice in his mind as clear as it was on the last day she called his name. It had been a long time since he heard her voice so clearly.

          “It just can’t be. It’s just a strange coincidence!”

         Henry picked up the front page of the paper. In the lower left-hand corner were several contact telephone numbers for the newspaper. He walked to the phone and dialed a number. It rang.

          “Hello, Jonestown Star, how may I help you?”

          “Uh, yes ma’am, I need some information, please.”

         It was a pleasant voice on the line. Henry imagined her as being young and pretty—an awful lot to assume from just a voice.

          “I’ll see what I can do, sir; how may I help you?”

          “Well, I’m callin’ about a message in the paper today.”

         The young woman responded in a lighthearted voice, “Oh, you must be referring to the Valentine’s Day messages? Which message are you interested in?”

          “How did you know I was talkin’ about the Valentine’s Day piece?”

         She chuckled, “Sir, we get inquiries every year when we do this. I’m sorry, but if you are seeking information regarding the author of a message, I can’t give you any information on that.”

          “I never imagined this happened with such frequency and is so predictable. But, young lady, it is very important I find out who wrote one of the messages.”

          “I’m so sorry, sir. But we don’t keep that information. We literally throw the requests away after we publish them. I mean, it’s not that I won’t give the information to you; it’s that I can’t. We don’t have the information.” A touch of sadness flowed through her voice as her compassion visibly flooded to the old man.

          “Oh, I see.” Henry’s heart melted as he felt the pang of disappointment. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. I just thought—well, you’d laugh at what I thought.” Then his voice faltered as he remembered Helen and all the opportunities he had missed to tell her he loved her.

          “You see, Miss, I just thought I might tell her I loved her just one more time. I miss her so much. I’m so sorry; I’ll not bother you any longer. Thank you for your time.”

         Softly the voice on the other end of the line slowly spoke tenderly, “Oh, Sir, that’s quite alright. But, you know, Sir, somehow I feel she already knows. I’m so sorry I could not help you, bye.” And, then she hung up.

         Henry returned to the kitchen table and stared at the message. He picked up the paper and began carefully tearing the message out of the paper. He folded it and put it in the pocket of the robe that was a gift from Helen. It seemed appropriate that it be kept there.

         He returned to his bedroom and began to ready himself for the day. He showered and shaved; picked the comfortable slacks and wool shirt from his closet. Before leaving his bedroom he walked to the bathroom and opened one of the drawers by the sink. He rummaged in the drawer and found what he was looking for—a grease pencil. Carefully, he leaned to the mirror and wrote, “My darling, Helen, I love you too!”

         His next stop was the study desk. Again he rummaged through a drawer until he found an old Valentine’s Day card Helen had bought him long ago. She didn’t know he saved stuff like that. She would be pleased. Henry shoved the card in his back pocket and headed for his last stop, the cemetery. However, along the way he stopped at the intersection and motioned the young man selling roses over to the car where he purchased just one.

         It had been a long time since he stood over the headstone. Her grave was well tended. Henry pulled the Valentine’s Day card from his pocket and placed it against the headstone.

          “Helen, darlin’, I suppose it’s only fitting that I give you one that you gave to me. There’s a lot of love in that card, Dear. I want you to have it.”

         Henry then kneeled and placed the solitary rose across her grave. The green grass was a beautiful contrast to the vibrant red of the rose. A tear fought its way to the corner of Henry’s eye. It then found a wrinkle and quickly tracked its way down his face. Henry let it fall.

         After a moment, Henry then whispered, “Darlin’, I just want you to know that I still love you and always will. Happy Valentine’s Day, Helen. I love you.”

         Words failed him. His voice choked with emotion. Henry kneeled there and watched the rose petals twitch in the gentle breeze. He had nothing else to say. If he wanted to say more, he could not. He couldn’t find the words to express his love nor sedate his grief.

         Finally, he whispered one last thought, “Was it you, Helen? Did you send that message to me? That’s just like you; I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.” The lonely man rose to his feet; wiped his face; and went home.


Word Count: 1,409