Dearest,
I have, on multiple occasions, expressed to you my theory that Valentine's Day was a holiday simply created to give us optimism in what is arguably the bleakest time of year; when the days are short and the nights long, and it seems spring will never come. You disagreed and proclaimed it was a sinister conspiracy that went all the way to the very top of the greeting card industry. We reached a middle ground by citing a possible desire for increased birth rates. Whatever the truth, this holiday has never been our holiday.
Yet somehow, I find myself falling sway to it this year. I believe it is because you are away from me this cold winter, and I am spared your cynicism…both how it endears and infuriates. All of which is to say, I miss you, I miss you terribly, and I wish you were here to laugh with me at all the pink and frill and awful innuendos.
Love is a tricky thing. It morphs and changes from each angle you examine it. It defies all objective scrutiny. We are told that love requires work, and yet it should be easy; that it is complex and miraculously simple; that love endures, but true love should create nothing that requires endurance. Which is it, my love? Is what I feel for you difficult or easy? Is it innate, or something we have built together? Both seem true and yet both are inadequate. I have been acquainted with this feeling for many years, and I am no closer to comprehension. I kneel before it, joyful and dumb.
I have been adored by many, and while I will spare you tales of my exploits, it has taught me something important. For many years, I mistook adoration for love. I stood atop my pedestal, safe and removed. And then you came along, with your dark eyes and impossible wit, and humbled me. Like Hermione in The Winter’s Tale, you turned the statue into a woman. A woman; beautiful and fallible, feeble and strong. I can never thank you enough for that. I have yet to forgive you.
Perhaps the question is not whether love is complex or simple, but whether we are. After all, love does not exist outside of us. It is an enigma entirely of our own creation. By us, I mean, of course, all humans. And yet also you and me, alone, together. Because it is everyone who feels this way, and nobody else. The contradictions are endless. All I know is I am a complicated woman, in love with a complicated man, for complicated reasons. But today, as I left the shops, I saw a little black teddy bear with a heart embroidered on its chest and thought inexplicably of you. I even purchased it! It is sitting now on the mantelpiece, wholly undeserving of the man whom it represents, and yet, I am not as lonely now, and I miss you a little bit less. It is all so ridiculous, and all so wonderful. Joyful and dumb indeed.
Should the weather allow for it, you will be back with me in a number of days. We will be laughing at the teddy bear together, hearts pinned to our chests, and such thoughts will be far from my mind. In fact, I shouldn’t have a single thought when I see your face again. Just that one incredible, confounding feeling, that we have determined to call love.
Yours always,
Lady Grace
