Two Hearts

“What a miracle of life when we grow two hearts, one that we keep with us forever, and the one we give to another.  She has one of those hearts with her always, and you will have one of hers with you, always.  You hear her with every beat.  Always and forever.”

I copied that quote down in my notes, but now I have forgotten who wrote it. Memory is such an elusive animal. It lives inside us, like a slumbering bear or a spectral ghost. It comes on too strong, and just when you are about to comment or take the next leap, it vanishes. Poof! Gone. Then if you’re lucky, perhaps there will be another visit an hour or two. The significance of the fleeting memory is gone, the context will have to be re-invented. You can either be frustrated with yourself, or relax and welcome the gift when it comes.

Back to the quote , wherever it can from, whomever first uttered it is long forgotten. It is a sentimental idea, growing two hearts, as if one heart is not enough. My wife would call bullshit on this concept, I can hear her before she speaks. Does that mean I have ears inside my head?

I have always joked with friends that they are not losing their hair. It is just choosing to remain inside. Their head and body are full of ever growing hair. As soon as it sprouts, it dies, so best to keep your cards close and guarded. Celebrate your inner bouffant. Listen to your inside barber’s voice. Your pompadour is pushing hard against the inside of your skull.

Perhaps my wife has one of my hearts, which she keeps in a safe place, just in case I forget mine somewhere. Her inner voice is whispering now in my inner ears: I am not your Mother. You will have to take responsibility for this wandering heart.

And why stop at two hearts? Get the whole collection. She has my twenty one year old heart. I don’t ask her where she keeps it. Perhaps folded in the pages of a favourite book. Perhaps it was accidentally thrown out during one of the many moves we have made in our life together. The Marie Kondo System for keeping your heart collection tidy. Keep only the hearts that speak to the heart, and discard the hearts that no longer give you joy.

I am hopeful that my twenty one year old heart still lives somewhere. I have her twenty two year old heart. I keep it in a box in the closet, most likely up high next to my shoe collection. I forget which box exactly, but I know it is there. I pulled it out last year when I was thinking that I might not be around much more.

It is filed with the various letters and postcards she sent me over the years. I can hear her voice as I read them. I get excited just thinking about them. She would have written these when she was away, perhaps visiting with her Mother back east, or taking a trip with a friend. She misses me. Her heart speaks from the folded paper, and pulls me back in time, forcing my errant memory to cooperate.

Listen ghosts, the twenty two year old heart is speaking. My dusty sixty four year heart listens. It usually hears what it wants to hear. But this ancient heart, the twenty two year old heart I have kept in a box, shouts out her love.

I am humbled by this glimpse into a past long gone. I am honoured to have been chosen to share my life with such a beautiful soul.

Now some people may get upset with me for gushing about this folded heart. Why does it still bewitch me so? Because I can hear her inner voice does not mean that I “know” her.

She is a mystery that I love to curl up with on a rainy morning. I try, I always try, to crawl back inside her. To try to find that twenty two year old heart, not the one that I keep in a box, but the one she keeps within the walls of her mind and body. To find it. To speak to it gently and say in a whisper, you mean more to me than life itself. You can keep this latest edition of me, with all my known defects, this refurbished heart that I now sport. And you keep this old heart in your box somewhere .

What will we do with all these hearts we have kept? So many boxes. I treasure them like the vapours of memory that drift in and out of my Marie Kondo mind.

I keep all the hearts, because they still speak to me. I am listening to them this morning, as I sit in the darkness and type away on my phone.

“ I’m wild again.

Beguiled again.

A simpering, whimpering child again

Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered

Am I. “