Going with the whole "Valentine's Day doesn't have to be just about romantic love" theme that seems to be occurring this year, I wrote a story. Enjoy!
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She was born on February 14th, Valentine’s Day, a day of love. Every year, her parents reminded her of this, adding that had she been born any other day, it would be a day of love too—but this day was just a little extra special. As a young child, she seemed to view her birthday as an honor she had to live up to; she loved everything and everyone equally, or tried to. From pet fish to raw broccoli, she greeted everything with a smile. Even moments of sadness didn’t affect her for long. She’d shed a tear or two over the death of her first fish, then with all the innocence of a six-year-old, insisted that the fish had gone to “fishy heaven, where there’s always fish food and friends.” This attitude could not, unfortunately, last forever.
It started a few days before her tenth birthday. She was at school, sitting on the top of the slide, staring dreamily at the bare winter trees. “Hey, you. You there. Move! We’re trying to race down the slide, here!” A few of her classmates were right behind her, and the boy speaking to her was narrowing his eyes. She’d looked up, slowly, a slightly bemused smile on her face. Without making a sound, she scooted over a few inches. “We can’t get through still!” The same boy yelled. When she didn’t move, he stepped forward and shoved her down the slide suddenly. She let out a gasp, and the smile broke. Behind her, the children laughed as she spun down the slide and landed face first in the sand below. She picked herself up, dusted the sand off her jacket, and looked up. “Incoming!” Yelled a boy she did not recognize, and she backed away from the slide just in time, as he came zooming off. “Whatcha staring at, weird girl?” he asked, and she still had not managed to smile, to turn the situation into something bright, something positive. She shook her head again and walked away, head slumped.
She did not smile again for the rest of the day.
Her parents were concerned, but did not speak, realizing that they could not protect their daughter from reality, no matter how much they wanted to.
The next morning, when she woke up, she looked towards the rising sun. Its golden rays were pouring through her windows, just reaching her outstretched fingers.
And with that, she smiled again.
But it was not the same smile that she’d worn for ten previous years. It was tentative, it was afraid, it was teetering on the edge, ready to disappear at a moment’s notice.
She came for breakfast that morning, and there was a long pause in between her “good morning” and “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”, as though she had to decide whether it would be.
At school, she avoided the other children, but her smile slipped in and out all day, no longer the constant radiance it had once been. It was a wounded soldier lying in a field already jammed pack with ghosts and whispers, of other dying hopes and dreams.
On the fifth day of her pause between “good morning” and “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” her eyebrows drew together. Her spoon paused midway to her mouth. Her parents exchanged a glance and stayed silent. Then she nodded, “It is a beautiful day.”
She walked down to the bus stop with a small smile, she got on the bus and it grew, and when the first child she saw at school asked, “How ya doing, weirdo?” she smiled even wider.
For she was born of love, to love, unconditionally, no matter what was thrown her way. It was her duty, her honor, but most of all it was her lifeblood, what made each day worth living. It was a choice.
She would love.
