The day before Valentine’s Day
there appeared on the dresser in my parents’ room
a vase: tall, crystal, empty; beckoning.
It shimmered in the light streaming through the window.
When I saw it standing there, I was moved
to think of how it was just a given
that flowers would soon fill it,
given by my father to my mother.
The flowers were just a part of the holiday.
Of course they were; there was no other way.
I moved back into my room to work.
I thought of how I myself had never
celebrated a Valentine’s Day with anyone,
how I had never been so fully –
maybe, so foolishly, so head-over-heelsedly –
in love with someone for so long
that I would put out a vase on my dresser
the day before Valentine’s Day, knowing,
without having to say it, without having to ask,
that the flowers would be forthcoming.
No, I have never been quite so much in love as that.
Maybe, someday –
But I do not know.
No one has ever bought me flowers before
on a holiday such as this, with me putting the vase
out in advance, knowing it would soon be filled.
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