I stood by the door, holding the box of valentines. It was the one thing I would take from Mother’s estate. I watched as the auction house took away the Chippendale furniture, the Aubusson rugs, and her prized lamp collection.

Mary knelt wrapping the silver in gray flannel. “Are you sure you won’t take anything else, Cindy”? Its not like you’ll need the money from the auction,” she asked.

I sat on the bare floor and opened the box. This was Mother’s first collection, a set of Victorian valentines. She had scoured flea markets all over Europe, falling in love with the ornate cards. In the bottom of the carved box was a manila envelope. “Special” was written in mom’s spidery script. In it was every valentine I had ever made for her, and the cards I sent when I thought I had no time to create another. Had I known how much they meant to her I would have stopped everything. The carpools, the meetings, the rush. I would have stopped and made her a valentine. A simple red heart outlined by a paper doily. A child’s token of love.

“No. I have all I'll ever need,” I said.

© 2007 Pat Kennelly. Original for CCF (Kennelly grants CCF first electronic rights for one month; CCF may archive the material indefinitely and include it in an eBook anthology).