“In a world full of temporary things you are a perpetual feeling.” Sanober Khan

There is a distinctive chill in the air this morning. 

And the wind is howling as if a lone wolf on a deserted prairie.

But damn it all, it’s February 14th, and I’ve totally bought into this rather aggressive protocol about exactly how we value our love. 

Otherwise known as Valentine’s Day. You’ve heard of it? It’s a Hallmark invention that romanticizes a very narrow group of lovey-dovey types, people who don’t lose their shit over minor mishaps or daily frustrations.

They must all live in Hawaii.

My love has stains, patched elbows, and loose seams. But I refuse to give it up. Do you know what I mean? It’s my most beloved possession, regardless of the obvious disrepair. Aberjhani says this is what our love is––a sacred pattern of unbroken unity sewn flawlessly invisible inside all other images, thoughts, smells, and sounds. Like coffee or wine.

I don’t know about you, but the love I know is messy, sometimes confusing, and often doesn’t resemble romantic, gooey, can’t keep my hands off of your kind of love. It’s an aged love, you lay it down in a dark cellar, and it either improves or turns into vinegar. 

Let’s not open up that one just yet, leave it on the shelf, maybe pop it at my funeral.

And by the way, Hallmark can do way better with the required card thing. I’m thinking something more like; Sorry, I left your laundry in the washer for three days, and now you smell moldy, but I love that you never complain. And it comes with a dryer sheet! Or, How many times have I fallen asleep on the couch this week, let me count the days. I would buy a dozen cards if they said something more akin to, Thank you for making the coffee for the last forty years, I think it’s why we’re still married, and you know I like it hot! I’d give Larry the same card year after year because he’d never remember!

The thing is, love gets interrupted by real life. Like when people get sick, shit breaks, or Larry decides to go biking on my fake holiday with the guys, and my sister is working, so she can’t join me for a glass of wine. I get frosty. And it goes downhill from there. 

Right? 

Okay, truth be told, there’s a back story. There always is, or what would I write about? 

A few nights ago, while we were still in Palm Springs for a recent tandem event, I mentioned to Larry, “honey, look (I hold up the date on my phone), it’s the 12th! This means Valentine’s day is in two days!”

He moans. I’m not kidding.

Loudly and repeatedly, as if he was injured. 

I say, “Wow, not the response I was hoping for.” But just between me and you, I’m a little worried about him!

He laughs and says, “it’s just one more thing I have to do.” 

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? He’s retired. What the hell does he have to do? Pick up a card, flowers, some expensive perfume. I’m so easy. 

I say with a touch of sarcasm, “You’ll be relieved to know I bought a gift for the both of us. So you don’t have to do a thing.”

He looks both relieved and suspicious. So I assure him, “you’ll love it, and so will I.”

This is why I know God loves me. Months ago, I ordered a large matt black table tray for the dining room table from a little shop outside of Alberta, Canada. It was one of those must-have items that Larry would think was unnecessary, excessive, and pricey. So I put it in the little shopping cart for like six months. Talk about restraint. Then one night, on a whim, or I could have been in a mad mood, I bought it! I got the shipping notice this week, so I decided to play it up as Larry’s valentine’s gift! I know, brilliant, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. It was actually delivered while we were in Palm Springs, so when we arrived home, Nic had graciously dragged it into the house, and there she was, leaning provocatively against the wall.

I’m like, “there she is!” I think I clapped my hands.

Larry says, “that’s it?”

“It is.” Our linguistic abilities really shine here.

“It’s in the way,” and while I’m standing there with my mouth gaping, he grabs her by the neck and drags her into the office as if she’s a piece of rubbish.

It’s the 13th, the day before the big day, and I admit, I’m overly excited. I’ve been waiting for months for this oversized tray, and who can possibly think badly of me for wanting to open it a day early?

Slipping quietly into the office where Larry is obsessing over what is the right size box to ship our gigantic tandem bike to the next event. He has the measuring tape out. This is a bad sign. He drags me out into the cold garage so we can measure once again the exact length of the bike’s frame without the tires. It hasn’t changed. He’s unfocused and mumbling to himself. 

I’ve seen this behavior before, and it is never good for Cheryl. 

So I suggest that we open our mutual valentine’s gift right now, and then we’ll have a whole extra day to enjoy it. I don’t think he actually heard me.

Robotically, he says, “that’s fine with me,” but I know he’s still thinking about the size of that damn box and how to protect a thing called the coupler. How does a girl compete? I think I could be naked, stripping the tape off the box one piece at a time, and he’d still be mumbling to himself about boxes, bikes, and the cost of shipping.

I ignore his mood and slide the huge piece gently out of the long box. I’m literally swooning because I know what’s inside. Maybe I should put on some music?

He finally notices the package, bends over to get a better look, and says, “what is it?”

“A tray.” I stretch out the words as if I’m introducing him to Marilyn Monroe.

He says, “A five-foot tray? Just what I always wanted.” Rude.

I refrain from mentioning the 65-inch television he gave me for Christmas one year or the tandem bike from last year. Heroic, I know. 

I say, “it’s for the dining room table.” 

He says, “we needed that,” but it sounds more like a question.

I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” as if it were a reprimand.

Ever so carefully, I carry the piece to the dining room by myself. Then I painstakingly decorate the thing with flowers and these little twinkle lights. I’m ridiculously pleased with the outcome. Larry is pleased that I am pleased. 

And that’s about as good as it gets. 

We open a bottle of wine to celebrate, walk over to Julie and Nic’s to say hello, and drag them back across the street to show them our shiny new thing. They admire the decorative display, but I think we reminded them that tomorrow is the big day, and who doesn’t get freaked out by that?

Larry and I made pork and rice for dinner. Then I went to bed to read. Larry watched a movie about WWII and some small town in Holland. We snuggled when he came to bed because it was cold. I mean freezing. Real love. 

So today is Valentine’s Day. 

Larry’s at boot camp when I wake up around 6:45 am. I hear the key opening the front door a little after 7:00 am. He brings me a cup of coffee, along with the vase we bought while we were in the desert, filled with fresh flowers he just purchased from the grocery store on his way home.

He says, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and leans in for a kiss.

I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day. Thank you for the lovely flowers. Nice touch.”

We settle in with our coffee, turn on the news, he’s still mumbling about the difficulty of packaging a tandem bike, and I’m still gushing about the adorable table tray. This is love. It counts, it’s a life surrounded by issues, family, frustrations, friends, and all that is happening in the world around us. 

He says, “you want to go for a walk.”

I say, “yes, after another cup of coffee. And can we stop and get an empanada?”

“Sounds good.”

The acidic taste is still in my mouth after the two cups of coffee as we walk a mile to the small cafe just past Campbell Park and order a bacon empanada with hot sauce.

The cafe is crowded, and after splitting our empanadas, we walk two more miles around the park before returning home.

It’s true. I slipped into the dining room to peek at my tray, touch the soft pedals, and couldn’t resist turning on the twinkle lights in the middle of the day. I’m besotted. Then I sent my sister a text. Me and my first valentine are having coffee early tomorrow morning. There will undoubtedly be cream, sugar, and crying. 

There’s a rumor that some sort of perfect love exists, it doesn’t, I think the best we can do is to allow what I call divine love, pure love, to course through us and touch each other. Softly. Profoundly. Imperfectly. 

I’m Living in the Gap, enjoy my tray, how are you doing?