A Valentine Story
Published Feb 12, 2018 12:05 am
By Dr. Jaime C. Laya
I LEFT MY HEART IN SAN FRANCISCO. The Golden Gate Bridge (Photo courtesy Charina Quizon)
She always insisted it was sheer whim, no more, that brought her there on the way home from school. His version was that his charm and good looks was the real reason that she passed that way and that he was just being nice showing her around. It was a continuing debate and the issue never did get settled, but so it was that they were together for the day.
The wind was in her hair, he remembers, as he pointed to the city, the bay, and the ocean far below a high ridge. In the flood of his memories are swans gliding on a quiet pond, a balustraded terrace on a misty hillside, a meadow at dusk moments after a festival of fairies, startled, had fled scattering millions of little white flowers in their haste. Later, in the chill of evening, he could not tell where the city lights ended and the stars began.
Valentine never did mean much to him. He had been to Valentine proms only because it was easier to buy than to turn ticket sellers down. He never fell for the cards, flowers, or chocolates pushed by what he was convinced was a Valentine cartel. His friends thought he was a cold unromantic and he agreed. Maybe it was just a coincidence, then, that that magical day was Feb. 14. Or maybe it was a little joke, St. Valentine’s reminder that Cupid aims well, that there is a Valentine’s Day and it is all about love.
In later years, she would wonder how different their lives might have been had she skipped San Francisco. His answer never varied, it could have been another time, the place could have been different, but there surely would have been another day just like it.
The years have passed—many happy years—and she has gone. It took him awhile to recover, but he did and moved on. True to form, he does not linger over spilt milk or brood over water under bridges. No, he does not think often of that enchanted day. There are other concerns and trials, triumphs, and joys as well, of the present.
Only once in a while, such as when he hears an old favorite tune or when a storyteller asks, do the memories surface, always with dazzling, unfading intensity. Older and wiser now, he accepts that it is too much to expect a reprise, that one such day in a lifetime is good fortune enough. Just the same, he still wonders if fairies still gather in secluded meadows at twilight and if St. Valentine still smiles kindly on the unsuspecting, as when the good saint did that February day so long ago and so far away.
Comments are cordially invited, addressed to [email protected]
I LEFT MY HEART IN SAN FRANCISCO. The Golden Gate Bridge (Photo courtesy Charina Quizon)
She always insisted it was sheer whim, no more, that brought her there on the way home from school. His version was that his charm and good looks was the real reason that she passed that way and that he was just being nice showing her around. It was a continuing debate and the issue never did get settled, but so it was that they were together for the day.
The wind was in her hair, he remembers, as he pointed to the city, the bay, and the ocean far below a high ridge. In the flood of his memories are swans gliding on a quiet pond, a balustraded terrace on a misty hillside, a meadow at dusk moments after a festival of fairies, startled, had fled scattering millions of little white flowers in their haste. Later, in the chill of evening, he could not tell where the city lights ended and the stars began.
Valentine never did mean much to him. He had been to Valentine proms only because it was easier to buy than to turn ticket sellers down. He never fell for the cards, flowers, or chocolates pushed by what he was convinced was a Valentine cartel. His friends thought he was a cold unromantic and he agreed. Maybe it was just a coincidence, then, that that magical day was Feb. 14. Or maybe it was a little joke, St. Valentine’s reminder that Cupid aims well, that there is a Valentine’s Day and it is all about love.
In later years, she would wonder how different their lives might have been had she skipped San Francisco. His answer never varied, it could have been another time, the place could have been different, but there surely would have been another day just like it.
The years have passed—many happy years—and she has gone. It took him awhile to recover, but he did and moved on. True to form, he does not linger over spilt milk or brood over water under bridges. No, he does not think often of that enchanted day. There are other concerns and trials, triumphs, and joys as well, of the present.
Only once in a while, such as when he hears an old favorite tune or when a storyteller asks, do the memories surface, always with dazzling, unfading intensity. Older and wiser now, he accepts that it is too much to expect a reprise, that one such day in a lifetime is good fortune enough. Just the same, he still wonders if fairies still gather in secluded meadows at twilight and if St. Valentine still smiles kindly on the unsuspecting, as when the good saint did that February day so long ago and so far away.
Comments are cordially invited, addressed to [email protected]