Control F – Search for Heart

Indie coffee house love #westwood
Is it sick that I am proud of myself for this:

for having written nearly ninety posts on grief (mine, over your death) using the word “heart” figuratively only once, and then, with sarcasm?

The other times, I wrote of the organ in your body. The one that failed. Devastatingly. (Adverbs, yes. Some snuck in, but dwindled in the winter of 2012.) I also wrote of the organ in my body that was pulled out and repaired before I met you. And I wrote of the way you asked about it–my heart.

Oh, my heart.

Three: inside of me, alongside of me, and underground.

No, really six: those, plus two tiny faster ones, and the one incinerated. Actually, eight: those, plus the ones that made me.

Still more. Nine: those, plus the one drinking Merlot from a plastic cup. Eleven: those, plus the ones too young to imagine how messy tilling a full life can get.

(Or is it “be”? Life can be messy. Life can get messy. Messy. Get. Yes, get is what I meant.)

This sounds unstable. Over-thinking. Ambiguous. But hopefully not cliche.

Was my heart broken? It doesn’t matter how blistered my palms are around this spade. I will not let go.


Photo: Art by Chuck Blackwell of Topanga Canyon CA USA Contact via FB

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