It sneaks up on me every year. I scarcely have a chance to haul the Christmas tree to the curb and turn the page on the calendar, and there it looms: February 14th, Valentine’s Day. I hear a voice in my head: “What are you going to give Liz? What are you going to give Liz?”
My twin brother and I have big heads. The first person to become painfully aware of this was my dear departed mother:
“It’s eighty degrees with a gentle breeze, Jerry,” he casually mentions when we talk on the phone. “Sweethearts are picnicking; families are frolicking at the beach….”
Can you feel it coming on? The hate, I mean.
