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Dearest Heart,
Muscles can tear, and you are a muscle. Muscles tear when we move our bones, our structural supports, in ways that we can't stand. My structural support is in a place I can't stand - it's too far away, out of reach when I need to feel hugged and loved - so I feel like you are breaking. You feel solid, hard, brittle, fragile, and I can almost hear you cracking when I think about leaving my husband and the family that has tried (unsuccessfully) to embrace me for ten years.
But you aren't brittle, nor are you fragile. You are supple and strong. You adjust to every millisecond of our life, no two beats are the same. Every instant of clench, like every snowflake, is different from every other instant of clench. And with every release you are filled with a freshly infused liquid.
I want to tell this to my daughter and I don't know how. She found out about our decision a few weeks ago, and now she is fantasizing about being kidnapped and having no home of her own. She is five. The fantasies aren't invading her dreams, at least I don't think they are, but when I hear them I want to reach for my structural support and instead I wrench something, or am wrenched. By you.
You can wrench, but you can't break. And neither can I; after all, what is my life, if it is not your life? I am wrenched by my reaching out, my reaching out into thin air and stumbling and falling and hitting something hard. But everything that is hard is outside of me. Even my bones are full of air and gooey marrow.
I am supple and strong. I adjust to every millisecond of our life. I am clenching, and I will release. And so will she, and so will he. Because we are all our hearts.
Love,
Bonnie
