Wednesday night I sent my sisters a text, reminding them that the next day, Valentine's, was our mother's "favorite holiday" and told them that I loved them. When we were growing up, on February 14 each year, Mother would repurpose the old red Easter basket and stuff it with sundries and what nots. Fun stuff. Little surprises. Daddy would buy us a box of Whitman's. He continued that tradition almost until his death in 2011.

On Valentines this week, I woke up thinking about the holiday and about my mother. It was one of those times her memories invaded and saturated my thoughts. Fondly.

Next, I switched to thoughts of my own daughter. Without words–which she has few of–she'd made it known during two recent trips to a nearby Hallmark store, that she wanted one of their pink-and-red, heart-bearing, musical stuffed animals. I made a dash to the store late-in-the-day before, endured the line and had one wrapped in a cellophane bag, stuffed with pink and red tissue and tied with a glittery ribbon. Upon waking, I schemed how I'd give it to her. Timing was important. If I gave it too soon, she'd while the morning away dancing instead of getting dressed for school. I opted to hand it to her in the car. After I did, she  studied the battery that could be turned off and on. She tore off the tags and proceeded to press the stuffed monkey's hand, activating the music to which which she rocked back-and-forth in the front seat on our drive into school, continuing to strip the seat belt of it's edging threads. 

Mother is gone. Her memory lives on. Valentines and other holidays ressurrect thoughts of her. And beside me, her only grandchild, and I, her mother, also share her blood, her eye for things beautiful and love for this "holiday." We've celebrated February 14 all week long here.