Nostalgia Stiches for Broken Hearts

Just as my favorite Valentine’s Day mug reaches my mouth, I hear a thunderous collision of falling boxes; followed by a yelp from my sister. Ugh, I moan inwardly to myself. I haven’t even experienced this exquisite coffee yet. I slowly meander to the attic. My sister is seated on the floor with an array of spilled boxes around her. She smiles up at me attempting to appear innocent. She sheepishly admits to getting a little carried away. She gazes across her mess of memorabilia and realizes she had way too many boxes on her trek across the attic. Her excuse being she just wanted to sit down while perusing through the treasures. 

I begin collecting some of the items that fell out of the largest box. “What’s this?” I ask as I turn the aged box over in my hands. It is an old, heart-shaped box with faded words that read, “Our first Valentine’s Day”. It has one of those old diary locks on it. The ones that all have the same keyhole and can easily be broken into. A magnet to intruders of secrets we attempt to hold close. Jamie gazes up from an old photo album she is looking through. A faraway look in her eyes as she answers. “Not sure, but if you sit down and open it, we just might find out.” I toss it back into the box and continue cleaning up the rest of the items. “LeAnn” she drawls out in a whiny tone. “Please just take a quick trip down memory lane with me.” She pats the floor next to her as she scoots some memorabilia over to make space for me.

“Why must we go through moms’ old things today? She has been gone for almost seven months so why now, on Valentine's Day?” My shoulders slump as my mother’s pained face flashes across my memory.  I quickly change the subject by teasing my sister. “Twenty-two years old and you don’t have a steamy date to get ready for on this night of unrequited love.” She rolls her eyes and starts her explanation, unintentionally bringing my reluctant mind back around to my mother’s heart attack. The heart attack that managed to rip her away from us much too soon. My sister continues talking nonchalantly, never grasping even a glimpse of the pain I’m stuffing back into its box, where it belongs. A box not much different than the one in my hands. Both boxes with their flimsy locks, much too easy to open. “You know that Mom always tried to make us feel extra loved and extra special on Valentines’ Day.” This helps to disrupt the nagging grief attempting to drag me back to that day. We make eye contact and drone in unison, “Now you girls should know better, Valentine’s Day isn’t just for the romantics.” We stifle our giggles as we both reminisce.

Mom expressed her thoughts on love to us every Valentine’s Day as far back as I can remember. She would always start with the line regarding romantics. She would throw in snippets here and there about how the day was created to honor one of the most important human needs. Descriptions on all the various ways we crave and disperse love to each other. The Valentines’ Day speech would conclude once all three of us were together on the couch, cuddled up, gorging on chocolates as we watched a sappy love story unfold in the latest romantic movie. In response to Jaime’s rendition of Mom’s speech I say, “I get it, but I just don’t want to visit the past today.” On the inside I’m reminded by a quick jab of grief as I realize, I already have visited the past unwillingly. She looks up at me with a look that says, “then don’t, but I am.” Ignoring the resentment I feel towards her joyful exploration of the past. I blow out a rush of air and then saunter over to the partially cleared area beside her.

I acquiesce and pull the heart box out again. “Should we open it” I ask. She shrugs her shoulders and continues looking at old photos. I pause and ponder the consequences of seeing something that could scar us and then I finally say awkwardly, “what if it’s something um inappropriate?” Jamie laughs, “yeah right. When have you known mom to even have a love interest? Other than that, one old guy everyone is obsessed with in the movies. What was his name again? John? No. George… something…” As she drones on trying to figure out his name, I visit a moment in time when mom talked about being in love. She admitted to being in love once but was devastated by her love interest’s death, ending their fleeting love story.

I decide to push old memories to the far corners of my mind, again. “I leap up while exclaiming, “Okay let’s find the key.” She points to a couple of boxes strewn across the walkway of the attic. I start to skim through them in search of a key. I find everything but the key. There are old photos of Jamie and I during our birthdays and Christmas. I even come across some photos from our angsty teenage years. Those gems need to be hidden quickly. I uncover old pottery, crafts, and scrapbooks we had made throughout the years. Each memorable item reminding me that I was tremendously blessed in the parent department. Mom made every miniscule moment seem like it was exceptional.

“Aha it’s here!” Jamie cries out with exuberance. She darts over to me. Her excitement is contagious. I release the lock. I pause and ensure that Jamie still thinks we should open it. The younger, more carefree of the two of us responds with an encouragement for me to quickly open it. I lift the lid and I am surprised to find what appears to be important documents of some sort. I don’t have time to finish my thought as to why this valentine box would have paperwork in it before Jamie lifts the documents up. Under the paperwork lies various photos and a worn journal. I graze the cover with my fingertips. I am entranced by the thought of reading my mothers’ thoughts. I gently place the journal on the floor and lift a photo.

There I am three years old cheesing for the camera. An infant wrapped in a pink blanket in my dainty arms. Mom is helping me support the baby’s head in the photo. She is looking at us with such joy in this photo. I start to experience that longing for my mother. The one that never quite disappears. It just ebbs and flows as the days go by. Jaime breaks into my nostalgia, “Oh, these are our adoption papers. The date is Valentine’s Day! Do you believe Mom adopted us on Valentine’s Day?” The importance of the day all begins to make sense. She had told us so many times that she knew she was meant to be a mother and that is the reason we were given to her. She had tremendous amounts of love reserved for my sister and I before she had even met us. She had never mentioned that we arrived in her life on any specific day though.

I bounce up with new fervor, holding the tattered journal. I state with an ere of confidence, “Jaime get the chocolates. I have the perfect love story for our Valentine’s Day tradition.”