Early Morning, Valentine’s Day

I remember as a little kid waking up on Valentine’s Day and coming downstairs to find a little plastic cup, pink and red, filled with candy hearts, heart-shaped redhots and a package of Reese cups beside my breakfast plate. My Mom did that every year on up through high school.

I need to Google those cups—do they make them anymore, is it possible to source them from Marketplace, a vintage store?? Or do they exist only in my memory?

Anyway, this memory now stands in contrast to the bitterness of my parents writing me out of their will, dismissing me from their lives and legacy. I’m not sure how to feel about this memory. For Mom there was this attention to detail, almost a slavish exertion to celebrate the holidays—even Sweetest Day, which I’ve never heard of outside of Mom—again giving redhots. She kept the home spotless, fixed terrific meals, made cake and cookies from scratch. While, on the other hand, the “loving” part, the emotional side of the relationship was difficult for her. The hugs, kisses, the cuddling, tucking in bed at night—were much harder, almost never happened.

Demonstrative love—is not always in the big acts, but the small, easily overlooked moments, is at least my take away . . . as I listen to my grandson sing in the bathtub.

this is sort of what they looked like, available from Etsy