Three Valentines by Ken Whitson, americano with a dash of cinnamon

The box of Mom’s things has been sitting accusingly in my apartment for months—her death another uncomfortable truth I’ve been trying to avoid. If I open it now, I tell myself, I’ll dredge up feelings I’m still not ready for. But I know that’s a lie. One of many I’ve been telling myself lately. So, I trace my rough, blue-collar fingers across the smooth folded flap…

The soft thud of a bone-white envelope meeting hardwood at my feet pulls me back. How long has Mom’s box been open, her faded photo album in my hands? I retrieve the envelope, study the stamp adorning its upper corner—three cents, purple eagle’s wings spread in a ‘V’ for victory. Unstruck. This eagle never got to fly. Never got to deliver its message. The return address is for the family’s old Beacon Hill estate. A yellowed obituary, dated 8 January 1944, is paper-clipped to its back:

Thomas O’Malley, 22, killed in action. Memorial Mass to be held at St. Joseph’s, Cardinal O’Connell Way, Thursday, 13 January, 10:00 AM.

But it’s the envelope’s contents that mist my eyes. My grandmother’s handwriting, still crisp after all these years: 

Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearest Thomas. I’ve waited too long to tell you what I should have said before you left. I love you—have since our first dance at Ellen’s party. I laughed when you stepped on my toes. Remember? You turned so red I thought you might faint. Come home to me, my love. Come home.

 She’d written it. Sealed it. Then hidden it behind Brahmin walls she dared not breach. Wiping a tear, I set it aside and lift a photo from the box.

I’ve never seen it before. Mom, maybe twenty. Pale and freckled as ever and wearing a bright yellow sundress. She’s with someone. He’s dark-skinned and strikingly handsome in his Marine Mess. They’re laughing. They’re shoving cotton candy at each other in front of Sleeping Beauty’s pink-tinged castle. Valentine’s Day at the happiest place on earth, and it showed in their faces. There’s a heart candy attached to the front with wax. It captures the whole scene in its faded one-word message: LOVE. Just that. One word. And so much more.

My phone buzzes. Another message from David asking me to dinner tonight. He’s been patient. Respecting… my walls. Walls that I kept up with Gran and Mom’s support. And so, we meet at cafes where nobody knows us. Take walks in parks without holding hands. I keep saying I’m just being cautious, but he knows the truth. That I’m still that boy who learned the hard way what happens when people find out. 

I look at Gran’s letter, at Mom’s photo, and mourn the price they paid for brick and mortar. Be careful, I hear them say. Wall your heart high against those who would hurt. But what I want them to say is, some walls really should crumble. And sometimes ‘careful’ is the worst lie of all.

It’ll be a madhouse, of course. It’s Valentine’s Day after all. I text David back: ‘Yes.’

About the author

Ken is a retired civil servant still figuring out what retirement means. When not consulting or advising startups (in exchange for questionable stock options or even more questionable coffee), he coaxes stories from his keyboard well into the night. His work often drifts between genres—often tangling along the way.

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