Every year the red or pink envelopes would arrive,
three of them tucked into the post office box—
one for my daughter, one for my son, and one
for me. Sally always remembered. My children
were, perhaps, a bit cavalier about the cards—
they’d read the Valentines and smile and set them aside.
But I had an inkling of the longing to give love
inside them. How beautiful her heart.
How lucky I felt to be chosen by her.
How lucky to return her love.
This year, only bills in the post office box
and catalogs for sheets and seeds and clothes.
And the part of me who knows she is gone
shrugs as if I should just go on. But the part
of me who misses her longs today to find
her familiar script on a red envelope. I know
that it’s unreasonable. That doesn’t stop hope.
I tell the part that misses her that it’s okay
to grieve. That it’s okay to feel empty today.
That it’s okay to want to believe in miracles.
I love the part of me that misses her—I love
how it insists on remembering this gift:
Such a wonder to be loved by someone,
such a marvel to love them back.
