I won't be getting a Valentine's Day card from my father this year. While that may sound pretty obvious because he died on September 7th, it just occurred to me yesterday as I was buying cards at Scaredy Kat in Park Slope.

My father never missed a Valentine's Day. Every year in the days before the big day, I would find a bright red (or white) envelope in my mail box.

Oh, how I loved my valentine from my dad. Sure, it was schmaltzy; that was de- rigeur. He may have been a UC Berkeley-educated intellectual but he was not adverse to a schmaltzy valentine.

And he'd always send a card thick with syrupy Hallmark sentiment. He never wrote his own. My dad, the award winning copywriter, author, lyricist, never wrote his own valentine to me.

I say that with regret but also love. I think he believed in schmaltzy valentine cards.

He did customize the card a bit. He'd write:  "To My Dear Daughter" and sign off with an "I love you very very much" in his barely legible—but endearing—handwriting.

Those two verys meant the world to me.

I also looked forward to his tiny drawings on the envelope, where he doodled airplanes, elephants, hearts. Sometimes there were little jokes, exclamations or a make-believe postage stamp.

Already I am missing my valentine. I felt tears coming at Scaredy Kat talking to the nice owner. But I stopped myself. Not here. Not now. I wondered if a lot of customers spill their Valentine's Day-related grief at the card shop.

So no valentine from my dad this year. Just a mental image of him walking to the card shop, browsing through the Valentine's Day cards, searching for the perfect card for me, my son, my daughter, my sister.  His quick script on the card and writing my address with care. The postage stamp; dropping the envelope in the post box.

Not this year. But in memory, I guess.