29

The heart is a very small muscle. It powers our entire lives and yet is no larger than our fist. It amazes me how much it can contain. That within its fragile walls lie all that love and gratitude that make up our existence.

That within mine beats memories of breakfast in bed, of coffee along the water, of summer returning for one glorious warm, sunny day, of Mapplethorped soul old friendship cigarettes, of music and drinks, of parties and presents. Of hurricane phone calls and cobblestoned meetings. Of one moment when all the other worries washed away, and what remained were the eyes of those I love, who treat me better than I deserve, who love me when I don't know my own name, who stay on the line till all the words have been said and I stare out over the misty city reflecting in still waters and think Oh that's how those pieces fit together and see my crooked patterns make sense against the bruised and scarred lining of the very muscle that powers me.

Do you think of her often? she asked me as we sat on the street, too tired to return to the party and drifting into Bigger conversation. And I do. I think of you, and all the years you lost, all the life. I think of me, of all the years I had ahead of me that I did not know would come, that I could have never dreamed.

My heart has grown a million times since then. Getting older is not too bad, then.