Hearts Day
Every 14th of February, without fail, I find myself doing the same thing. Standing in the kitchen at an unreasonable hour, making coffee I don't strictly need, staring out at a street that looks no different from any other morning. There is a particular quality to Valentine's Day that resists cynicism, even when you've grown old enough to know better, a stubborn warmth that sneaks in through the cracks of routine. It is not the chocolates or the flowers or the restaurant reservations made weeks in advance. It is something quieter, more persistent. A soft insistence that love, in all its forms, is worth pausing for. I have celebrated this day in wildly different circumstances. Once, so deeply in love that the day felt almost too small to contain it. Once, grieving someone I had lost the year before, surprised to find that even grief leaves room for tenderness. What strikes me now, looking back, is that none of those versions of the day were failures not even the lonely on...