During my childhood, I always loved visiting my dad’s store around Valentine’s Day to stare at the elaborate seasonal Whitman’s candy display. Dozens of heart-shaped boxes wrapped in pink and red frills that could only have come from the recycled costumes of a long lost production of Gone With the Wind. It was the 80s after all, and tackiness was king, but to me the heart-shaped arrangement of boxes on a lone section of pegboard was one of the most beautiful things I could imagine.

I would stand in front of it wondering which one my dad would choose for me this year. Would it be pink or red? He always got red for my mom. I wanted pink. Maybe I would get a big box this year instead of a medium box. I was bigger, so why shouldn’t my box of candy be bigger?

Come Valentine’s morning, my excitement would build up to its highest level, almost too high to make it through breakfast, despite the appeal of the newest rubber heart toy with bendable arms or plastic heart beaded necklace that my mom had given me. That’s because I knew that this year’s box would be waiting in my room for me when the cereal bowl had run dry. I’d race back to my room and there it would be, in all it’s fabric-covered glory. Pink. Yes.