And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
One morning this week, I sat down at my computer, as usual, hit the power button, and waited for it to go through its machinations so I could get settled into my work day. I was braced for the sudden blast of news, almost always bad or horrific lately, and my finger was poised over the keyboard to get me over to the sign-in page for my email.
Luckily, as my finger was diving for that button, I saw a headline and I paused.
“Brachs releases original flavor Conversation Hearts for Valentine’s Day!”
WHAT?
Ohmygosh. Those little, chalky, oddly sweet, heart-shaped candies with messages on them. I remember Valentine’s Day parties in elementary school, where we’d decorate shoe boxes in red and pink hearts and cut a slit in the lid so that classmates could slide in small envelopes with special cards inside. Some really nice kids would tape lollipops to the outside. But when I sat at my desk, loaded with a pink or red frosted cupcake, a couple pink or red frosted heart-shaped cookies, and a heart-festooned paper cup filled with red Hawaiian Punch (“How about a nice Hawaiian Punch?” “Sure!” POW!”), I dumped out my box of envelopes and then shook each one. If it rattled, I opened it and out rolled little Conversation Hearts. I read each one, eager to see what each classmate had to say to me.
Luv U
Be Mine
Hug Me
The teacher always passed out little baggies for us to put leftover goodies in, and I carefully brought home my Hearts.
Valentine’s Day was a holiday my parents did well. Not over the top, not ignored, but treasures waited for me on my desk every Valentine’s Day morning. There would be a card, a small heart-shaped box of Whitman’s Chocolates, holding 6 pieces, and another heart-shaped box of Brachs Conversation Hearts. Before I would go downstairs for breakfast that day, before I would even get dressed, I’d open the box of Hearts and close my eyes to pick one out. After reading it, I’d pop it in my mouth and sigh with delight.
As years went by, it became harder and harder to find the original flavor. But as my children arrived, I continued the tradition. Each child would find those two little boxes waiting for them on Valentine’s morning. By then, the Conversation Hearts were decorated with cartoon pictures, so I picked a different one for each child, carefully curated for that child’s personality and likes.
The first Valentine’s Day with Michael, he stood beside me as I pondered in front of the candy aisle in Walgreens, deciding which box was for which kid. As I chose, I explained to him the years of Conversation Hearts I’d experienced, and that while the chocolates were enjoyed, for me, they didn’t hold the importance of the Hearts. “Chocolate is included in almost every other holiday,” I said. “But Conversation Hearts…only Valentine’s Day.”
That first Valentine’s Day with Michael, and every Valentine’s Day since, until three years ago, I woke up to a heart-shaped box of Whitman’s chocolates and a heart-shaped box of Brachs Conversation Hearts, left on my desk. And a card. After that first year, as I was now sleeping as an adult without a desk in my room, but my writing table was right next door in my office, I knew to get up and go directly to that table. Before breakfast, before even getting dressed, I’d open the box of Conversation Hearts, close my eyes, and pick out a heart. From Michael.
All that time, through twenty-five years of marriage, they were never the original flavor.
Valentine’s Day 2024: Almost a month past being hit and run over by a passenger van, Michael lay in his hospital bed. At that point, he thought I was his sister, and he called me his sister’s name. He told me he wasn’t married, that he was only twenty-three years old. I’d steeled myself for a difficult day, but on the way to his room, I stopped at the gift shop and bought two Valentine’s Day balloons, one in red, one in pink, but both said, “I love you.” I brought them upstairs and found Michael asleep. I tied both balloons to the foot of his bed so he’d see them when he woke up. And then I waited.
When he woke up, he looked at the balloons and a frown puckered his forehead.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, hon,” I said. “Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you.”
“Oh,” he said. “Thanks, Rose.” Then he went on to ask me, “In your professional opinion, Rose, what do you think happened? How am I doing?”
Michael’s sister was a nurse.
I went home in tears that day.
Valentine’s Day 2025: Michael had been gone for almost eight months. It was the first Valentine’s Day I could remember that I didn’t have a heart-shaped box waiting for me. But I was missing so much more.
Valentine’s Day 2026: Coming up in two days.
Headline: “Brachs releases original flavor Conversation Hearts for Valentine’s Day!”
There is a Walgreens literally in my backyard. Their security light provides a nightlight in my bedroom that I’ve grown used to over the 20 years of living here. After reading that headline, I walked over there in the afternoon and stood in front of the candy aisle.
I no longer bought Valentine’s Day treats for my kids. They are adults now, and out and about. But I stood there, my eyes roaming over all the pink and red heart-shaped treats, until I found it. The original flavor. And not in a small heart-shaped box.
A bag.
I’d been without them for three years, donchaknow.
It wasn’t Valentine’s Day yet, but when I got them home, I didn’t wait. I sliced open that bag and then I reached in.
I always carefully organized my Hearts. Pink was my favorite flavor. So I picked out two of those, and then one of every other color. I lined them up on my table, with a pink as the first and last one.
It was the first time my Valentine’s Day treat was mixed with tears, and given to me by me. But that’s okay; I’ve grown to expect it on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, special unique days known only to me and to Michael, and days that memories flit unbidden through my mind. Tears are now part of the tradition, I guess.
But those Valentine’s Day Conversation Hearts tasted just as wonderful as I remembered.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
