I discover the words printed on the inside of the foil candy wrapper, as I pop the heart-shaped chocolate in my mouth. A sort of Valentine’s Day fortune-candy mantra: Be your own valentine.

In our media and commerce-driven world that equates material gifts with a measure of true love and interprets “being alone” as a desolate fate, such words could have wreaked havoc in my soul. However, while I’m not currently “in relationship” with another, I’m neither desperate nor lonely.

I had spent the day fondly recalling stories about my late husband and his annual ritual of sharing handmade valentines with the women and children in his life. Alex had abhorred commercialized holidays, and preferred to bestow gifts at times of his choosing, but his annual valentine sharing adventure remained a nearly lifelong habit. He’d scour the stores in mid-late January for lace doilies, heart-shaped stickers and other intriguing decorative materials.

Some years, he’d feel lazy and grouse a bit if he felt that the recipients of his treasured creations had not shown adequate gratitude and/or recognition of his artistic efforts. Then one year, we heard about our god-daughter, who had treked out to the curbside mailbox every afternoon for 2 weeks, in anticipation of the treasured envelope that would bear her name, scrawled in large red marker. In 2006, he struggled to complete the task, yet cheered our hearts with his pink and red concoctions even though they arrived closer to mid-March as our minds had begun the shift to St. Paddy’s green.

By Feburary of 2007, he was too ill to complete the task one last time and steadfastly refused any assistance. While his tradition was ending, his teacher-artist daughter sent him a handmade valentine mobile, which we hung over his hospital bed in the living room. A fitting tribute and gift of love, to this gentle man and caring father, who–in an earlier career as a math teacher–had shared his fascination with the work of Alexander Calder while teaching mathematical principles by creating mobiles in the classroom. And in the wee hours of the morning of April 7 2005, that delicate heart-shaped mobile cast candle-lit flickering shadows on the living room wall as Alex bade a reluctant farewell to his full and complex life.

Nostalgic thoughts and loving memories of a man who sometimes seemed larger than life, and who continues to dwell in my heart as the “silent partner” he promised to always be. Understandably, he’s a lot more silent than before, yet I continue to feel his love and support each and every day, but especially this Valentine’s Day.

And in the way that fortune cookies often provide a gentle reminder of oft-hidden truths, I feel myself comforted anew by the gentle validation: I am my best valentine–my first and most constant friend. And the more that I care for and nurture myself, the better friend and valentine I can be for others each day of the year.