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