A Message Outside My Window
I was sitting at my kitchen table, mulling over the reality of my life after the death of my beloved husband, Joe. This was the second Valentine’s Day without him, and my loss was still painful. No more large bouquets of roses from the Korean market across the street; no more cards with the sappy verses he favored. Just then, a large silver and red Mylar balloon floated by — staying for a quick wiggle in front of my 25th floor window. Was this Joe sending me a valentine, after all? I acknowledged his message to me, and smiled appreciatively. — Elizabeth Vecchione
Oblique Acceptance
Before my freshman year of college, my grandfather flew out from Palm Springs to spend the summer with my family. One day, while parked on the living room couch in his caftan with a cocktail in hand, he pointed at the television. Anderson Cooper was on at full volume. He looked at me and asked, “Do you see that man on the TV?” I nodded. “Gay,” he asserted emphatically. In that moment, I believe my grandfather was letting me know that he saw me for who I was, and was inviting me to see him for who he was, too. — Jon Roux
One Choice, Two Valentines
My Valentine’s Day flowers were not something I’d normally hide. But they were from Bob, and Toby was on his way. Toby’s flowers would go in the closet the next day, when Bob came by. I was tickled to find myself with two boyfriends at one time. More often than not, I had none. But by the time both bouquets wilted, I knew I had to come clean. “Take all the time you want,” Bob said. “I know you’ll make the right choice.” Almost four decades later, I’m still grateful that I chose Bob’s openness, in no time at all. — Cynthia Washam
Having Our Cake
“I just couldn’t spend five bucks on a rose,” he said, handing me a cake. Farshid was a graduate student from India. For him, five dollars was a fortune. I understood. While a rose served solely an aesthetic purpose, a cake could nourish. Still, for Valentine’s Day with my first proper boyfriend, I’d dreamed of roses. “Why are you crying?” he asked. I recovered quickly, embarrassed and suddenly aware that roses didn’t matter so long as we were together. For years to come, we’d have our cake and eat it, too. — Savita Iyer
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