It was pink, but it was a typical pink. A very standard pink. In fact, one might call it “Valentine Pink” and send the name off to Crayola, and soon kids around the world will be smearing “Valentine Pink” on their sketchpads and art projects and parents’ furniture. A million-dollar idea from a priceless Valentine’s Day carnation card.

Priceless, indeed, but certainly valueless; it seems hardly worth a glance, let alone a cent or two. The printed rose, yes, and of course the “Valentine Pink” background—who could miss that?—are both readily discernable, but the card’s appearance elsewhere is less than dazzling. The colored-in rose is smudged; its red ink and green ink look especially disagreeable running together. The most prominent feature of the card would likely be the formidable crease in the middle, the predictable result of the card’s place in my wallet.

One might say that the card seemed to be crying, yea, even bleeding the well-memorized words penned in green, but that description feels all too sweepingly poetic for such a simple piece of “Valentine Pink” paper. A quotation mark here, possibly half a word there (oh look, a comma!) serve as reminders of an important life lesson learned: a pocket is not a good place for a wallet while snowboarding.

Even before its wet excursion on the slopes, wear and tear was having its say about the card’s life expectancy; wear and tear was gracious enough to let Wisp Ski Resort have its say as well. Certainly no one would find value in a tattered, creased, water-stained card with ungraciously blended colors and all its potentially juicy words smudged away. Two priceless words, however, did manage to endure and remain clear, despite such trials in the snow: “love you.”

It was a typical pink, but it was a special pink. “Caroline Pink.”