Darling, it’s beautiful. Thank you, she said.
She turned her broken heart over and over in her hands, inspecting it from every angle.
There was the time he had lied; the time he had commented on another woman’s breasts; the time he had told her to stop eating so much bread. There was the time he had not answered her calls…all night…even though they had plans. There was the time he forgot her birthday, cancelled their weekend away, and told her he wanted to see other people.
Her broken heart pulsated in her hands, each wound raw and gaping. With every turn and touch, it ached and throbbed, the pain impossible to bare.
The heart had a mind of its own. It beat wildly, pressing itself into her mind no matter the time or moment. It sprawled…it took…it commanded. It carnivorously devoured her soul.
There was the time they met. The 6-hour walk along the beach. The sweet gifts, glances across the table, and tangled legs in bed. There was the smell of his skin and the sound of his laugh. There was the time he said, “I love you,” and the time he asked her to move in. There was the love-making, the soul-searching, and the life-living; the pancakes, the evenings walks, the cozy nights in.
There it all was, right in front of her, beating in rhythmic time.
She cradled her broken heart in her palm. She watched it weep and ooze. She watched it throb. She watched it breathe. She watched it change in shape and form.
It was a gift from him to her, this broken heart.
Over time, it settled. Its wounds healed. Its scars softened. Its rhythm became strong and smooth. What once was raw and gaping, now was sweet and wet. Damp with sweat. Damp with exertion. Damp with relief. It was over, this heart-felt rage.
It was his gift, from him to her.
This strong, beating heart, that carried her all the way.
In love and liminality,