The sound of paper hearts

On this day just a tiny thought I like to share.
 
One of the first objects I went looking for after my adoptive mother died, was the large coffee table book filled with hundreds of Valentine cards. More than trying to find an actual object, I was in search of a memory. But when I weigh nostalgia’s substances, confession time rings as a chalice of charms. So yes, I remember the book more than the multitude of love tokens inside. It was a huge object. Leafing through it as a very young child was only possible when my mother allowed for a mutual moment of admiration. Turning the pages.

The sound of paper hearts. Secrets. Soft. The smell of dried rose petals. Pink. Red. Words of love, friendship, kindness, admiration, courage. Love.
Longing.

Then the day came that two curious Chesire cats pulled me at my braids. I sleepwalked my way to the book, down the stairs, silent. How did the book fall on the floor? Who dropped it? Cards had fallen out, and a trail of hearts and arrows, angels, and pictures of dancing bodies barely dressed, covered with garlands and bows led into our garden. Seducing me to go after them.