Wherever you go, go with all your heart. –Confucius
I was leaving my heart everywhere. Cells, veins, grams of tissue. With this or that person, all over the internet, in a café, where I saw her for the last time. In an attic on Durant in Berkeley, with the ghost of Cassandra. Even Rini’s dog has a piece, buried with him in a small patch of Earth.
The right auricle, I put away in a heavy black box, disaster-proof, and stuck it into the closet. Later, I said. I’ll get you out later. (By then, it wasn't listening anymore.) Kept its degree in Scorpio on a memory stick I almost left behind in a schoolroom in Galway.
With all that leaving behind . . . the motor slowed down. Grinding time, over vast distances: that was getting harder. Once it stopped working. I blamed transiting Pluto. I poured olive oil over it, tossed in garlic and slices of tomato and cracked an egg over it, and it got going, but only just.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so profligate with my heart. I had been arrogant. I thought it was so big, so great an organ, it could be distributed prodigiously, given so freely, dispersed without a care, and I would go on and on, still.
Today, today, today I don’t know.