[For old times sake, the present is delivered to Morgan by way of Urk on the 14th, whose tears have merged into his sweat, creating a moist canvas of skin. The box, carved of bone, contains an ornate knife sitting in black velvet. The hilt of the knife brandishes white branching swirls of bone and gold, bearing the symbol of the deer. The blade is stubbornly free of iron, and just as sharp as a good blade ought to be. The sheath also carries a gold carved image of a deer. Urk trips on a rock.]
I had this made for you when I went to Ireland, months ago. Do you remember that? I came home bruised and you held me and loved me so tenderly that I couldn’t believe it. You promised that you loved me, and the day after I thought I should have given this to you right then. But I felt it too serious a gesture, too forward. I had this made for you in a place that doesn’t know love. This, symbol of family, for you. And if there were a time for serious, forward gestures, it wasn’t the months that followed.
But we have come so far, with so much work. And though the last thing I want to do is present you with something too heavy, the truth is the feelings that had this made for you have not changed, aside from growing stronger, fonder. If this is too much for you, you’ll have to tell me.
In my family, every member is made their own knife—decorated to celebrate them. It is our symbol of duty, honor, sacrifice and tradition. The knife has been the enduring symbol of our family—steadfast metal, crushed into shape, sharpened into weapon. (I can tell you more about this in person, and isn’t that a marvel? To be able to speak like this to each other out loud.) But to you, for you, it only means that you are my family. I have never known love before you, and whatever the tide of Fate brings, you will always be my family. You were the first person to tell me that I mattered, you are the only person to convince me of it. No matter what, I will always be thankful for that. You have changed my life for the better, you have been in my life, and you have become part of its story.
But I would much rather be in yours too. Together.
A year ago I gave you a letter I was so excited to write, I had it ready and sent off days before. Perhaps it’s a little insulting to know this letter is being written the day before, though no less excited. It is also perhaps unsurprising to you that I have liked you for a long time. A year ago, I wrote to you a little excited and anxious, and when the reality of my affection for you came to me—I took it all back. Those words; I pretended as if they’d meant nothing. This year, there is nothing to take back or hide. And in that sense, it wouldn’t be fair to keep this from you any longer. I have it, and it was made for you, and it’s yours now. And a year ago I was worried that a mug might be too forward.
If you’re free, and though I know you don’t drink coffee anymore, perhaps we might indulge ourselves in the social institution of it….and have ourselves that date we couldn’t that day. Porches optional.
Your loving girlfriend,
Deirdre
P.S I love you
P.P.S You know, why is it you say Valentine’s is dumb and made-up but all holidays are made-up, and nothing you like is dumb. And, you know what? At least this holiday gives me an excuse to try and be more corny than you.
P.P.P.S I love you
P.P.P.P.S And as it turns out, I still want to talk to you just a second longer.
