by Lorna Kerin Beall
Years ago I had a beautiful blue willow platter that I treasured hanging on my dining room wall. One day when I was gone, my two younger daughters chased each other around the table, and knocked the platter down, shattering it. Filled with remorse, they found each miniscule piece and glued it back together again. I promptly hung it up again. My oldest daughter, Jana, pointed out something I already knew. The platter was ugly. But I persisted in leaving it up for years. Finally, in an act of love, Jana replaced it. I took the broken platter down, and proudly hung the new one. But I still cherish the remembrance of how my younger daughters so lovingly mended the other. That incident and something a friend told me about an experience of hers inspired this little piece.
The Mended Valentine
When my friend’s lovely home burned,
with all its fancy furnishings and fine collectibles,
she said the thing she regretted losing the most
was a torn and taped-together valentine.
Her grown son had made it when he was just 6 years old.
She’d been canning that day long ago,
and was tightening the lid on her last jar of peaches,
as her boy labored to get both sides even on a valentine.
His little tongue was stuck out in concentration,
as he drew and smudged and erased, again and again.
She tried to help, but was pushed politely away.
“Must be for that little red-headed girl he likes,
the one who lives in the brown house down the street,”
she told herself, as she continued her tiresome canning job.
She sighed. The steam from the kettle, the 100 degree heat,
and the blazing wood stove were wearing her down.
With great effort, she hoisted the last rack of filled mason jars
from the giant pot that was boiling and splattering on the stove.
In the hot sun streaming through the kitchen windows
the peaches in the glass jars looked like gold.
But they felt more like lead.
She fanned herself with her wilted apron.
Her son chose that moment to hand her his creation.
“For me?” she asked, taking it, but then setting it down,
as she pushed the kettle to a cooler spot on the stove.
When she turned back she saw that her teary-eyed son
Had snatched it up, and was ripping it to bits.
She tried to hug him, but he pulled away, and ran from the room.
She got down on her knees and picked up each tiny piece.
She put the valentine back together with tape, tears and love,
And after she showed it to him, she placed it with all of her other treasures, in an old cedar chest.
My friend had saved the valentine all those many years.
Occasionally when the chest was opened,
her tall and bearded son would pick up the valentine,
admonishing her for keeping the silly old thing.
And sometimes, his face as red as the valentine he’d made,
he’d even admit that he was glad she had.
And though the mended valentine is long gone,
along with the polished keepsake chest that held it,
I know it remains secure and cherished in both their hearts.
