The Valentine's Gift

Oh my Dear, you will be so very upset when you do not receive the customary cut flowers, candy or commercial card this year for St. Valentine's Day. You will have to make do with my handwritten note of love and care, and potted Rosemary plant, a starter for the kitchen garden you often mention.

I refuse the normal sacraments of the day because I rebel against the taxpayer subsidized corporations who profit from $4.50 cards. Perhaps I want to "Save the Earth" by not subsidizing flowers grown by slaves overseas, and transported here by environment-killing turbojet engines through the stratosphere. I die a little inside each time I view the tortured roses propped in chemical-laced stagnant water, striving to live through their medicated death throws, until I am required to dispose of them.

I show my love to you when I bank my entire paycheck and every bonus into our joint credit union account. I show forbearance when your bonus goes to a decorative "special item" that must be purchased.

Earlier in your life, you learned that the correct authority figures exist everywhere in society as government officials, police, teachers, doctors, news anchors, celebrities. You follow them blindly regardless of logic or results of their policies or information. You refuse to research any topic, to gauge what you witness with your own eyes against what you see on TV. You also are conditioned to ignore your husband's opinions and policies, because they are not 100% based on the quickest short term solution.

You are smart, magna-cum laude in your University Master's program, and it is a burden to carry this conflict inside, so you periodically break down into fits of tears. After the purging you are fine and great. The worries have been shed, handed to the husband witness. Never do the tears bring about change in behavior.

I'll continue to show my love to you. I show my love when I work all weekend to save $600 on a car repair. When I wearily strip from my filthy clothes and enter the house bleeding from a busted knuckle, you really don't need to warn me about the carpet, that is why I'm holding it in a paper towel. When you have uncontrollable nausea and diarrhea, and nearly faint from exhaustion I'm there for you, cleaning both ends. When I fold your laundry, consisting entirely of heavy flannel pajamas, I remember how the last sexy lingerie I gave you, years ago, is hidden unworn in the lower back drawer of your dresser, how you dismiss any compliment of your appearance or attractiveness.

Putting these words down has been cathartic. Perhaps this is my equivalent of a good cry. However, being who I am, I wonder, even at my advanced age of 55 years, if something should be done.