Last Valentine’s Day

Expectations often lead to disappointment. The partner I have grown accustomed to, who I have settled with, has brought me a thoughtless offering of waxy chocolate and a rose with petals bruised from frequent fondling by passersby in whatever grocer he found it. I know there is no ill-intent in this gesture. He is a simple creature who has never been known for surprise or spontaneity. He is a provider, and that is where he ends. Why should grand gestures be expected of a boring man today more than any other?

Still, my calcified heart feels a strong nagging this time of year. Lovers past haunt my dreams, begging me to forsake this extended mortality and join them in the ether, in their eternal celebration of hedonism and promiscuity. An echo of my beginnings, of rites and rituals, sex and death and rebirth and wolves and rabbits and love. A life I abandoned thousands of years ago.

Still I cannot join them, not yet. There is more to explore, to see and feel and learn, even in this mundane and puritanical pocket of time. No, the sacred days I miss so terribly have been reduced to placeholders in seasons, each with their own greedy incentives, yet I cannot return home just yet.

The mortal I now call my husband slumbers next to me. He expects to rise early for work, though another date awaits him this day.

Candy hearts are sweet, but human hearts fuel my occupancy of this realm. Happy last Valentine's day, love.