Happy Valentine's Day

The following story is based on a true telling during a “how we met” game at a Valentine’s Day party Gary and I attended over the weekend. This couple met and married during a time when interracial dating and marriage were thought of in the same way many people think of same sex marriage today. When I heard her tell her tale it inspired me, and my hope that someday all love will be treasured by everyone.

The Lovely Face

Petunia held her breath as she rounded the last corner before reaching the art gallery. With a last final burst she ran to her painting and burst into tears. She hadn’t really expected to win. And most artists would be happy to win any award. But the first place ribbon only served to say that once again she had not won the overall prize.

She sighed. Her self portrait had been the flower of her name, beautifully rendered in flowing purples and blues, lightly dusted with silver stars. She smiled slyly. No one had said a self portrait had to be strictly representational. Petunia flipped back a colorful scarf over her neon pink sweater. Perhaps going against the grain did have its price.

She looked around and hurriedly swiped her face. Petunia wouldn't be caught dead crying in public. If her mother had told her twice she’d told her a million times that crying was for the weak; to make it in today’s world girls needed to be tough.

Especially poor black girls.

Petunia squared her shoulders. The strong action would be to congratulate the winning painter. She held back tears. The right thing to do.

Fortunately a crowd had gathered in front of the grand prize winner. She slipped in between the wine sipping patrons and came face to face with the painting. Instantly her body felt as if it had wings. She swayed and a young woman caught her.

“Are you all right?”

Petunia nodded, unable to speak.

“It’s very good, don’t you think?” the woman added.

Petunia stared at the painting. Technically the work was excellent, but the content was what had caused her heart to soar; wise green eyes set into a pale face gazed back at her. Somehow she knew this person, although she could not say how.

“Where is the artist?” Petunia managed.

“Not here,” the woman answered. “He doesn’t often come to his own displays.”

Petunia smiled at the woman and slithered back through the crowd. Her thoughts were with the strange green-eyed man all the way home. She drifted through the front door, letting it accidentally bang shut.

“How many times have I told you not to let that door slam? We don’t have the money to replace it,” came a stern voice front the kitchen.

But Petunia was far away.

“Petunia! Did you not hear what I said? What are you dreaming about, anyway?”

Petunia jumped; her mother was standing in front of her, hands on her hips. She looked tired.

“I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s eyes softened. “I know.” She patted Petunia’s shoulder. “What were you thinking about?”

A smile crept across Petunia’s face. “The loveliest face I have ever seen.”

Her mother frowned. “Some boy you met? We’ve talked about that. No dates. You’re too young. I want you to go to school.” She tucked errant curls back under her work scarf. “I want you to get a college degree.”

Petunia shook her head. “A painting.”

“Oh,” her mother said, relaxing.

Petunia’s eyes glazed over. “It was loveliest face, mama. He had the most wonderful green eyes.”

The cigarette her mother had been smoking blazed and then fell from her mouth. “Green eyes?”

“Uh huh.”

Her mother sighed. “Why does beauty have to be a white face, Petunia?”

Petunia frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” her mother said, walking back towards the kitchen. “Do your homework. And don’t stare out the window.”

Petunia ambled towards her bedroom. That face could have been striped for all she cared. It didn’t matter what color it was. It was lovely. She sat on her favorite bench and stared outside. The spring leaves were just starting to turn a deep green. She threw open the window. The scent of honeysuckle filled the room.

Petunia sighed and started her homework. She never really expected to find the boy in the portrait, but unlike her mother, her grandmother had always encouraged her belief in enchantment. “Petunia,” her gran had said right before she died, “you and I, child, we’ve got the pixie blood in us. Don’t ever forget it.”

Petunia never did.

Many years later Petunia sat across from a handsome young man on their first date. He had green eyes, of course. Petunia always dated men with green eyes. The day was perfect; a warm breeze played through the green leaves, high overhead. The sweet smell of honeysuckle was on the wind. Petunia had worn her favorite gypsy dress, adorned with multicolor ribbons and tiny bells that tinkled when ever she crossed or uncrossed her legs. The young man noted every time she moved.

The bells played often. Petunia was very aware of his interest; she knew a woman cast her own spells. She shifted her shoulders. The young man also eyed that area. “Show me your portfolio,” she said softly, looking up under dark lashes.

He grinned. “You first.”

Petunia opened her well-worn leather satchel. Brilliantly colored paintings spilled out into the bright sunlight.

The young man studied each one by one. “You’re a fabulous painter.”

She dipped her head demurely. “Thanks. Let me see yours.”

He took a deep breath. “Mine aren’t as good as yours, but…here they are.” He drew out a stack of drawings. As he spread them on the ground, Petunia realized most were black and white. But a flash of green caught her attention. Without permission she grabbed the colorful work. Her heart stopped.

There, staring back at her, was the lovely face.

She dropped the painting. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen,” she whispered.

A puzzled look swept across the young man’s face. Petunia told him the story in a halting voice, suddenly afraid of her declaration. You see what happens when you are too fanciful, she could hear her mother say.

When she stopped, the young man cleared his throat. “Well. That’s very interesting.”

Petunia’s face fell. “Interesting” was not the word she’d been looking for. But at least he hadn’t run off.

“No no no,” the man said, taking her hands. “I think it’s cool.” He hesitated. “I have a double major…the other is physics.”

“Physics?”

He smiled. “Sure. That’s why your story is so fascinating. Maybe we've met somewhere in an alternate universe. You know, quantum physic? String theory? Black holes? How about fractals?” he added hopefully.

She smiled and he took her into his arms. The wind whipped up and blew a crown of leaves into her wild curls. He could think whatever he liked.

Petunia knew it was magic.