Valentine’s Day in my Eightieth Year: No drama, a good memory.

Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and although I am a widow, I didn’t feel sad. This might surprise you. After all, my husband loved me deeply. But to Boyd, Valentine’s Day was a holiday jointly run by Hallmark, candy companies, florists, and elementary schools.

Our children grew up in the era when each child was required to create a Valentine “box.” Not just any box—a box decorated to reflect their personality. Not so easy, as we had three children with very different personalities under our roof: one perfectionist, one “just-so-I-fit-in,” and one proud member of the “I don’t care” club.

It was my job to assemble the supplies: doilies, stickers, red tissue paper, white tissue paper, construction paper, tape, glue, assorted hearts, and—most importantly—three pairs of scissors so no one would have to share, therefore avoiding crying over scissors. We gathered around the kitchen table for a family bonding crafting experience. I insisted Boyd joined us for this event.

What followed was a heroic evening of agony, arguing, negotiating, and compromise. Eventually, the boxes were completed. Spirits lifted. We had survived.

Then came signing the valentines.Two of the three children blasted through their lists. Sign name. Next, Done.

But not our perfectionist. He insisted on matching each valentine to the exact recipient based on the wording. This required reading each card multiple times, deep reflection, and what appeared to be ethical deliberation. Boyd watched this unfold, doing his best to move the process along to his son’s great annoyance. When the task was completed Boyd had visibly aged.

By the end of the evening, Boyd disliked Valentine’s Day even more than when we had started—which I had previously believed was impossible.

Over our 58 years of marriage, Valentine’s Day usually passed with little fanfare. Occasionally we exchanged cards. Sometimes I would make a special meal. Mostly, we agreed to ignore it, after all our love was above commercialization.

One Valentine’s memory of Boyd is a bit unconventional for him. He brought me a rose. A very sad rose, but still a real rose.  This was highly unusual behavior that I greeted with great surprise.

He was developing dementia but still able to do simple errands. I had asked him to pick up a prescription at Walgreens. The next day, when I went there myself, I spotted it—the saddest, most wilted roses, half-price since it was Feb 15. And I knew where this gesture of love came from.

Even with a shrinking world and a failing memory, he had seen that rose and thought, This is what you do. This means love.

Not perfect. Not pretty. But entirely us.