Love Will Keep Me Together

Italy-bound.  October 2009

Chapter One: Mark + Jane

It's 5:30 a.m. and I'm dilly dallying.  I've been fading in and out of consciousness for at least an hour.  And now, Mark is sitting on the bed in his Duncan Aviation duds, telling me goodbye.

"Happy Valentine's Day, honey poo poo bear," I mumble from under the blankets.  Mark bolts up and rushes to the Man Room.  I hear drawers opening and closing, paper rustling, a pen scratching my name.  Voila!  A card appears--one that has no counterpart, I'm afraid.  But we both know it doesn't matter.

A corny card awaits me (I'm not sure what "cahoots" are, but I know I'd like to be in them with you!) and, really, that is more than enough--a pun that makes me giggle.

This is what love looks like in the Holt household on Valentine's Day.

Chapter Two: A Walk in Woods

Today, I brought my phone on our morning walk.  For a few weeks, I'd been meaning to take a photo of the magical string of love notes still stretching between two trees at Woods Park.  This morning, phone in hand, I finally could record their existence and send my friend Mary Beth a secret message of hope, to boot.

What is there to love in a morning walk?  Everything.  The sights, the smells, the silence, the deliberateness of walking on ice and frozen snow.    And that look of my dog as I release him from the leash and he runs free--finally!--raw and fast and happy.

My walks fill me with love.

Always.

Chapter Three: Hubba Hubba, Hub Cafe!

"Friends" dressed as me...Halloween1988

Jill calls and asks if I've heard of the Hub Cafe.  I hem and haw just long enough to locate it--at the trailhead of Antelope Valley, next to that awesome sculpture.  She invites me to a late breakfast at the new place.  I promise to bathe quickly and ponder her offer.

When I arrive--fresh and only slightly frumpy--a few Russell Stover candies fill my pocket.  Because it is Valentine's Day and I like chocolate, I stopped at Walgreens on my way downtown (okay, it wasn't exactly on the way) and bought ten Russell Stover eggs to hand out to friends at the restaurant and--later--at church.

I'm nerdily excited about this.

A $6 piece of toast--laid thick with avocado and pickled onions, Lebanese spices and sea salt--calls my name and, before long, we are sharing stories of regret (WHA?!).  Kristie goes first and we giggle a little too loud, delighting in her squeamishness.  Then, Jill, recalling a former boyfriend who--with many years on her--probably was more of a man friend.  Steve, her husband, tells an amazing story about a former girlfriend--wild and funny and unpredictable.  And I wonder if I have any stories of regret.

That's when I remembered Jerry--a high-school/college boyfriend I really liked.  About the same time that  I entered college, Jerry entered Sloan Kettering, a cancer hospital in New York, where he eventually left without his arm, which had fallen victim to bone cancer.  We eventually broke up, but, because Lincoln is a small town in big-boy pants, our paths crossed again when I was a college sophomore.

We had a nice evening, catching up.  By the end of the evening, he said he was headed to NYC again the next morning and wondered if I'd like to see him off at the airport.  I said I would and he promised he'd call me before he headed to the airport.

Enter regret, in the form of a rotary-dial phone that rang and rang and rang as I lay in bed and listened.

I don't know why I didn't answer it.  Why I didn't get dressed and drive to the airport to wish Jerry well.  I still don't know why.

What I do know, though, is that the previous night  was the last time I saw Jerry alive.  A few months later, he died and I was at his funeral, wondering why on earth I'd just sat there that morning, all those months ago.

Chapter Four: Olden Years at the Landing

Sally and Jane, 2013.

After an enjoyable church service with friends, I called my mom and asked if I could visit her.  A half hour later, I was at the Landing, sitting in my mom's too-warm apartment, helping her rifle through the piles on her table.  Among the pile was an announcement that there'd be live music at 3 today.  We headed downstairs and took our seats, while a father-and-son duo worked the crowd.

And for the next 45 minutes, I was transported by all kinds of sweet things--love songs, old people singing aloud, corny puns, sweet notes, cookies and punch.  During that time, I was reminded of what a wonderful thing music is to all people, especially the elderly, people who have lived and loved and lost but who still have all those lyrics stuck happily in their heads.

It was wonderful, aside from that one song from the 50s.  Something about that era just makes me go dark.  And, when I left, I left with a full heart and a quiet satisfaction.

All kinds of love, it seems, bubbled up and met me today.  I still don't have a card or gift for Mark--who gets home within the hour--but I have something even better.  Memories of a day filled with fresh air and friends, memory and song, time with my mom, whose clock keeps on ticking.

It was a very good Valentine's Day.  Maybe the best yet.