I am watching the cheesiest program on TV that could ever exist. It is the eve of Valentine’s day. Some genius producer has decided to suffocate the audience for two hours with the most horrible love songs ever made. The songs are intermitted by the philosophical inputs of a bunch of TV celebrities. “If you haven’t declared your love yet, don’t loose any more time, call your loved one NOW”, they say to us who watch them in a hypnotic state. This whole thing sounds more like a teleshopping ad rather than a life changing advice. You think to yourself: “It is kind of silly, but why not!”.

I decide to give up on the suggestion. Just for amusement I imagine how all heaven would break loose if I actually made that phone call. More technical detail is that I do not have his phone number. I guess it is safer this way …

While I am watching Elvis Presley sing Love me Tender and throwing his red scarf at the hysterical girls in the crowd, I wonder how did I loose my ability to be foolish? Not to dare to make any move anymore. There is no “how” I suppose; probably an accumulation of misfortunate experiences.

I was fifteen when I did my first declaration of love. I had fallen in love crazily for the first time. It was a typical teenage drama. Because of my timidity, sending a card was my way of letting the guy in question know how I felt. I chose a humor-filled card, edited my text ten million times, and signed it daringly. Now, even thinking about it embarrasses me.  I knew that probably there would  be no return on his part, but still knowing that I put everything on the plate was quite satisfying. Of course nothing happened. He was few years older than me and already in a relationship. He naturally ignored me and left me in anticipation. I felt stupid for sending that card and very awkward whenever I would see him. Only many years later, when we got the chance to talk about me and him, he thanked me for having sent that famous card. “You made my day”, he told me with a sweet smile. Nothing more. The case was closed definitively.

That case was closed and few more were closed during the twenty years that followed. Some leaving more traces than the others. Today, I come to admire my boldness at the age of fifteen.  Even though the passage of time has made me prudent and cynical, I know that deep down that fifteen year old girl is still alive. She struggles to come out, to choose a card, to write her declaration and to sent it out. She edits her text in her head for when the occasion will present itself. She is however discouraged by the “wise” adult telling her to slow down, to be reasonable, and not to play with fire.

The teenager and the adult have found a common ground. They write on her blog for the mystery reader.