I remember how I felt when, in grammar school, I wrote my first valentine to my mother. I was very young and misspelled the keyword. The card read: “I enve my father.”

A year or so later, a card was given to Joy LaGuardia. I still have a second-grade photo of her, missing most of her teeth. Years later, she became one of the great beauties of the neighborhood.

As the years passed, there were other girls. I recall Schiavone, a girl I was too shy to kiss, but who knew much more than I did. There was Marianne, a well-remembered, raven-haired beauty, who was mysterious in her solitude. Always she seemed somewhere else, perhaps in her future. She moved with athletic grace, trailing secrets.

(Anxious to recall her, I skipped ahead.)  In the sixth grade, there was Maryann Ferone, who was one of two of us in a class of 40, who had an IQ above 100.

By the eighth grade, there was Connie, a very shapely beauty who once sat on my chest until I would admit that she was “tougher.” She was a fiery, Italian beauty, with a flair for style.

Many writings followed. Even today at my advanced age, I have written valentine sentiments, recognitions, admiration and love to a dear one.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
We crossed our pinkies and we swore
High in aspiration and made true
A “friendship for eternity.”
We crossed our pinkies and we swore.

Raphael O’Suna
Ha‘ikū