My heart is broken.
There is a hollowness there
4 chambers of open space
One summer, when I was just a kid,
I became obsessed with making sure my heart was still beating.
Laying quietly under soft covers at night,
or riding in the car belted into the backseat
I’d lay my hand over my small and still flat chest and wait
for the rhythm to reassure me
But somehow it only made me feel worse. How could I trust such a faint fluttering to keep me alive?
Even now sometimes I lay my head on Wil’s chest, just to hear the sound,
a sweet and steady pulsing.
I have not yet allowed myself to place my hand on my own son’s tiny delicate chest.
I am afraid of what I’ll feel. The slightness. The softness. The smallness. A muscle no bigger than a stone.
The beat of a heart is the first sound we hear, a great drumming, dancing us out of one world and into the next.
And its the last one too, the roaring of our own blood ringing in our ears.
Like wind,like water,
If I could work my heart like clay
I’d smooth the edges and shape the sides,
Dip my hands in slip and run them slowly over hairline cracks and fissures
sealing, repairing, fixing, healing.
It is not ideas that will lead us out of this, or our hands or minds or hopes. Or prayers.
It is our broken hearts.
Sadness is salvation.
Our grief is a great awakening,
Allowing us to
I love you.
Please forgive me.
Thank you for listening,