When I was younger, quite young actually, I overheard my mum speak about Valentine’s Day and how it must be nice to get flowers from someone…
She said this in response to a neighbor of ours receiving flowers at her door. I decided that I needed to act. Not really knowing how or what to do, and while having a limited bank account (and by limited, I mean non-existent), I had to improvise.
I shot upstairs, opened the door to my closet and rummaged through the veil of hanging wearables in my closet. I withdrew a crinkled and well worn white dress shirt, picked out a tie (clip on – I had no idea how to tie a tie!) paired that ensemble with some dress slacks worn for church, ran back downstairs and out the door.
I managed to remain out of sight and old Mrs. Fletcher as I foraged through her gardens for some (free) flowers.
Once I had selected what I deemed to be an appropriate mixture of horticultural brilliance, I cantered back to the front door of our house. A debris of petals and pollen followed in behind me as I ran back to our front door.
Now, panting and still on the lookout for that crotchety old hag, I knocked on our front door and waited. I could hear the muffled footsteps of movement from inside the house. The steps got closer and eventually the door swung open.
Stood there was my dear ole Mum. She looked at me with a hefty obfuscation and bellowed inquisitivly; “Matthew? What you got a tie on for? Are those your church pants?? You’re filthy!!! What the bloody hell are you up to?!”
I ignored all of her interrogative querys and merely replied with;
“Mum… I’m you’re valentine! … Let’s go to KFC!”
Well, tonight… mum, I’m your Valentine again… love you always, I miss you forever.