To the boy who helped me pull drowned kittens from flooded ditches and place them on the deck to dry,
To the boy who softly said that I could kiss him, as long as he exclaimed aloud that I could not,
To the boy who said he liked me too, but already had a girlfriend,
To the boy with whom I lost my virginity, about which we forever after called “Making Kool-Aid,”
To the boy who said “You use to be nice;” then, stood and walked away,
To the boy who boarded a plane to visit his ex, but returned to me the same day,
To the boy who serenaded my mother and me with “Hotel California” over a traditional full English breakfast at Thistle Hyde Park,
To the boy who called me for long after-homework high school huddles and who says I’m still the kind of person worth knowing,
To the boy who asked me to help him write a letter of apology to his mom,
To the boy who introduced me to Skinny Puppy and the destructive power of jealousy,
To the boy who stood by me and screamed “Chocolate!” at Shudder to Think and who would become one of my first best coolest friends,
To the boy who, throughout our growing up, often asked, “Would you like me to beat him up for you?”
To all the boys who checked the “Yes” box,
. . .
To the man who put gas in my truck,
To the man who told me to ignore anyone who called me anything other than beautiful,
To the man who introduced me to PJ Harvey and who forgave me for being 20,
To the man who stopped the show, changed the band’s set list, and played “Against the Grain” for the loudest little redhead in the club,
To the man who held the loudest little redhead in the club on the railing so that the band could not ignore her,
To the man who asked me to be the Best Man at his wedding,
To the man who watched all of Twin Peaks in one weekend with me, who re-wrote “Attack of the Potato Sack People” with me, who, from across the Atlantic, continues to commiserate about the pain of art with me,
To the man who taught me how to lift weights and eat artichoke, who shared the stage with me, who told me that it’s when things are at their worst that you do your best, who remains my best friend and my biggest fan,
To the man who let me stay in his home when I was afraid, who showed me how to home-brew beer, who thanked me for showing respect and kindness when I left, who asked me to come back,
To the man who taught me to listen to my gut, especially when it says to leave,
To the man who researched, recommended, and installed my TV; then, fixed my tire,
To the man who got me into the 9:30 Club in DC; then, got me a cab home,
To the man who gave me his seat on the bus after the protest,
To the man who gave me his seat on the train after the game,
To the man who gave me his seat at the police station,
To the man who gave me his seat at the bar,
To the man who taught me to repel and who gets funky with it (and me) on the dance floor,
To the man who dances with me no matter how many dances he’s already danced,
To the man who said I was the most beautiful dancer he’d ever seen,
To the man who sang me a sailor’s song by a bar in Burano,
To the man who said I was going to be one hot old lady,
To the man who baked me a pie,
To the man who tried to teach me Italian while I fumbled to teach him English, who offered me a beer every night, who reminded me that it was already in the past and I needn’t be sad any longer,
To the man who walked me to the bus station and waited until my bus came,
To the man who gave me his pocket change and my confidence back,
To the man who drives on Saturdays and greets me with “Ciao bella!”
To the man who said "You are back! This pleases me to no end!"
To the man who checks in with me after every blog post,
To the man who said my set list was all killer, no filler,
To the man who called me to offer his protection,
To the man who loans me his screeners,
To the man who set me free,
To the man who Skypes with me about the meaning of life, travelling to Europe, finding purpose in work, and the city of Toronto,
To the man who sometimes cooks for me and calls me cool by insisting I’m not,
To the man who shares his insights and asks for mine, who encourages me to rethink those worthy of my time, who undermines my excuse that state lines are stop signs,
To the man who bought me water and beat me at air hockey, who made sure the night didn’t end without one more kiss, who teases me with talk of coffee, who is the Harold to my Maude,
To the man who told me what he loved most about his wife was her red hair and freckles and that, someday too, someone would say the same about me,
To the man who said I could never disappoint him and that marrying my mother was the best decision he ever made,
To all the men who’ve opened doors,
Thank you for being my Valentine.