My Valentine
by Mrs.D.
The winter was slowly fading away. The glowing
sun, full of energy and warmth, pulsated in the blue sky, promising a sunny
day. Melting snow by my window, it woke up the first flowers, who bravely poked
their tiny heads through the thin icy covering. The crystal drops beamed on the
white petals, as the flowers gracefully stretched toward the sun. Full of hope
and poise, the young snowdrops waved with gentle leaves, greeting the returning
spring. Filled with love and peace, their smiling faces brought back memories of
my first love.
I had known him since birth. I lived by
the river. He lived by the hill. His house was old and crowded; mine was quiet
and new. He was shy and calm; I was jolly and noisy. We shared one crib and ate
from one bowl. We were neighbors and non-separated friends. We were children of
the postwar generation.
We grew up in a small village lost in the
Carpathian Mountains. His one-bedroom house, with a cold dirt floor and a huge
wood-burning stove, which took up half the kitchen, was my home too. His
grandma took care of us while our parents slaved in the fields owned by the communist
party. Sitting in his old crib, made from a solid piece of wood, we learned to
talk and read. On cold days, we cuddled under the woolen blanket and listened
to the stories his dad told our neighbors about the labor camp where the Germans
took him when he was a young man. We ate warm bread, baked by his mother. It
was dark, like the soil. Made from mixed grains, ground between two stones
placed on the bottom of a wooden barrel, it tasted better than any white bread
I ever ate. Swinging from wall to wall in the suspended crib, we pretended we
were flying to space. With its squeaking rusty chains, the crib threatened to
throw us out on the dirt floor. Giggling, we held tight to the metal chains
secured to the wooden ceiling and watched his forgetful grandma placing a pan
filled with pig grease on the wooden bench instead of the stove.
We shared many secrets, we did things
we shouldn’t, we fought and we cried, we hugged and we kissed. Then we grew up.
We were five years old. He told me we should get married as soon as the snow
melts.
“Why not now?” I asked.
“You will see,” he said.
The winter departed and the snow was
slowly disappearing. The earth was warming up under the shimmering sun. Spring arrived.
One day he tiptoed to my window.
“Come with me.” He impatiently
waved his hands, switching from one foot to the other.
“I can’t leave the house; my mom is not
home,” I said through the glass. He sighed and turned around. I saw him walking
toward the narrow bridge, and then he crossed the river and disappeared between
two hills.
“Wait!” I yelled through the open
window, and ran toward the hills. He was climbing the hill, covered in pure
white snowdrops, which peered at me with their smiling eyes.
“This is for you.” He gently stretched
out a shaking hand, full of delicate flowers. “I love you,” he whispered in my
ear.
Thank you!
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