I've been reading the Bill O'Reilly books Killing Jesus, Killing Kennedy, and Killing Lincoln this winter. Throughout each of them, O'Reilly makes statements like "the man with only three years to live" or "the man who only had a month to live," or "the man who had seven hours to live" did so-and-so or thought this-and-that.
When I retrieved the card from it's cellophane this morning (as I do every Valentine's Day), those words popped into my head and I could not get them out again.
For several weeks preceding February 14th, in 2007, we had sat through the nights at the breakfast room table. He would fall asleep there - the best place in the house to be, he insisted, to enjoy the benefit of the posture he needed for the pain to abate a little.
I had brought my pillow in, finally, and on more nights than he knew, slept with my head where my plate was supposed to be, holding onto his arm. One night, he asked me to buy us a Valentine card. One we could share. One apropos the dilemma. And so I did.
On the evening of the 14th, we toasted with the rum and coke that we never finished drinking. I was in charge of cooking, by then. I had found the usual Valentine ingredients, so I served the steak (just one to share), the lobster, the mushrooms, the potato (again, only one). I remember that I skipped the salad. I did not grill the steak. Rather, I stir fried it with peppers, onion, and the mushrooms. And tears. I remember the tears falling into the pan. "They won't hurt him," I told myself. "Not much of this will be eaten."
"You've been my Valentine for 23 years." Smiles. "You'll always be my Valentine." Grins. "You never know!" Silly faces. "Fat chance." A quick hug. "Where is our card?" I produced it.
The inside message was pertinent to our new lifestyle of sitting at the breakfast table asleep or awake. It says, "Technically, any place we sit is a love seat. Happy Valentine's Day." Yes I had found the best of all possible cards for us to share on this surreal occasion. A wink. Laughter. Clinking of glasses. Perfect.
The man who had only two months almost to the day to live smiled at me. He sipped his cocktail. He rummaged around with his fork, pretending to eat his dinner. He held my hand. He drifted off to sleep - sitting up - before I could clear the dishes.
