Standing in a violet light with my heart in my hand. A mass of muscle. It fits well there. Feels strange, this limp muscle with life gone out. Once beating, it now rests without a hiccup. My heart.
They tell me it’s still needed. Maybe even necessary. They write poems and obituaries for this heart. Some say it contains inspiration. But inspiration mildews. Sometimes it becomes sawdust.
It’s hard to see the heart’s true color. When the heart silvers at the edges it’s been exposed too long. The circulatory system that carried oxygen to my body is. Silent.
Beneath willows now. I hear the flogging trees. A squirrel scrambling along a bough while my arm stays outstretched. I wonder, briefly, how long I can hold my arm out this way. Even light objects grow heavy.
For a moment I wonder what I’m supposed to take away from all this. The flaccid muscle in my hand. Feels strange to hold it. This thing that once kept me living. So small and fragile, it kept me breathing, running, feeling. Kept me from being overwhelmed by the world’s beauty.
It is four chambers. Two atria to receive unoxygenated blood and two ventricles to send oxygenated blood. Four chambers. Four bedrooms. You could say, for a time, I was four chambers. Bed chambers. Capable of loving at least four people.
But as I hold this heart. Flat, expressionless and lavender, I am unsure. Whether any blood was let through at all. Like the locks of a dam. Keeping water back. Maybe there was something more important than blood here. Maybe I am made from other things.
Maybe I hold my heart in my hand because I do not understand giving and receiving or because I never used it properly. Maybe I was a poor steward of what I was given, and never served the body.
I wasn’t there for my grandmother when she passed. Growing up, we were close. I didn’t know my maternal grandparents and my dad’s dad died young, so it was my grandmother. And when she passed. Well. I called her on the phone. Which wasn’t enough. I was out of sorts. On my way to or from drinking. Like a rock falling from the sky. On the way to crash through everything.
Rather than generosity I have stored chambers of selfishness. But some of what seems selfish is flipping the lens. New parallax because of new position.
What else have I let slip through my fingers? A marriage. Endless relationships. When all I had to do was hold on. Not even fight. Just weakly hold. When to hold and when to let go. I think I have always had them swapped.
The heart in this hand tells me about action. The most important organ in the body. Vital. Because it works. Is always working. From the moment it’s set in motion to the time of death.
My arm is tired now. I draw it in and cradle. The heart is desiccated. I don’t know what else to do with it so I look for the first time at my body. A trapdoor in my chest that needs shutting. I reach my hand inside and grope against the fleshy walls of the cavern. Do I put the heart in its place?
I wonder for a moment if this is where it belongs or if there is a better place. A more forgiving place that understands the chaos and puts it to better use.
I think of what I do not deserve. Fifth chances, people believing in my goodness, redemption, grace, forgiveness, love. I mark those forbidden words in Sharpie and put it back in its place. It is still a place after all. Still a home.
I have a last thought. Because there are valves and valves are made for controlling flow. Deciding whether it will go and how much and in what direction. Certain valves stop it from flowing the wrong direction. That happens sometimes. Valves.
I’m standing knee-deep in my childhood, turning the spigot and holding the hose at the ready. My grandmother giggling. Those huge glasses on her face while smoking a cigarette. Beautiful grin. She’s got one hand on her arm’s elbow.
Would I like a cheese sandwich for lunch? With a glass of Nesquik. I would, of course. Because I am seven. I haven’t thought about learning or what living means. I’m still playing in the helium of open space and gratitude. With the moment. I’m still deserving of my heart.
There are messages and notes stored in that fleshy cavern. Loves and regrets. So much that I see it for what it was. And is. I drink from the hose’s end and turn off the valve. I go to her humongous grin. I go.
Roman Newell is hard at work on his debut novel — 20XX — a work in magical realism, which explores the complexities and conflicts in modern day societies amid confusing social norms, rapidly evolving technology, and impact traumas. Follow Roman’s Substack to be added to the 20XX contact list.
This is the part that got me: "Four chambers. Four bedrooms. You could say, for a time, I was four chambers. Bed chambers. Capable of loving at least four people."
That's stayed with me. A real and raw piece.
This hits man. Down to only a single grandmother. I was at college, and working, when she died. I had seen her a month or two before and she was gone. A shell. Zero response. My aunt had kept her “alive” on life support, collect her SS checks. It’s the only time I had no interest in going to a funeral. I normally am there to support loved ones. Couldn’t do it. Only one that understood was my younger sister. Because she was like my grandmother: loves you for what you are..what you are not doesn’t factor-in.
Regardless, I can’t help but sometimes wonder if I’ve done right by the heart I’ve been given. Relationships. Marriage. Some success, some failure. Many will tell you I’m a great success as a friend. Is that just a low-energy use of my heart, though?
Anyway, I dig this. Some of your writing flies over my head. It’s deep, for lack of better words. I’ll hang on to this one though.