The Hermit Heart

I keep my heart in the dusty southwest corner of my room. It’s the corner I rarely use: the one with wispy cobwebs and the line of dirt I couldn’t pick up with the dustpan. The heart still beats, but the gathering dust makes the labor increasingly difficult. Each time it beats outward, it exposes a new crack of flesh, where dust and ants flock to cover and disrupt the smooth twitching of the muscle. It’s at least safe there, in the corner. The world doesn’t see it, and I certainly don’t pack it into my bag or staple it to my lapel.

Upon seeing its absence, some women have asked where it is, but I never tell them. I send them on futile searches to throw off the scent.

“It’s in that box on my shelf.”

“I don’t see it in here,” they say after unhinging the maple lid.

“Well yeah it’s really small.”

“How small?” they peer.

“Pretty small.”
They quickly grow tired of the exercise and pursue the beats of other, easier to find men. I meanwhile gently replace the box, give it a quick dust, and glance to the southwest corner. It’s still safe, and thumping quietly in the dirt.

Of course, I take it out from time to time. I buckle it into the passenger seat of my car, and we soar down two lane roads chasing the Texas sunset. The heart, foolish as it is, always thinks we can catch the setting star, and find some kind of nirvana in the process. My feet know otherwise, but oblige the heart’s fancies, and push the gas pedal hard into the thick air. On the road, the dust flies off the sticky heart, and it begins to remember.

It remembers the dirt road to the family farm, when it was first allowed to drive before my feet could reach the pedals. My father would operate the speed while my tiny hands griped the leather wheel of the Ford pickup.

It remembers Highway 170: my road. It’s the long way home, but my heart knows the curves of that road better than the curves of a woman’s body, and enjoys them much more.

It remembers the ridge road of Ithaca. Beating excitedly, my heart would egg on my feet and hands. After hitting 60 and popping up on three wheels, we all decided to take it easy: only 50 from now on.

It remembers the forest road of Cayuga Heights, and the house nestled there. My heart pangs at this memory, but clutches to it like the squeeze of a mother’s hug.

It remembers the nameless roads of Bombay, and the constant danger. It remembers driving her along the sea road in Bandra, nervously gripping my sweaty body.

It remembers Highway 23, and the climb to Newton County where it had made so many revelations.

As I speed westward on the farm roads of Texas, I look over to my protected heart. It beats fast on the road, excited like a child.

Go faster, it demands.

Okay, my body agrees.

Upon our return to the house, I place the heart back in the corner, where it rolls around in the comfortable dust.

On some nights, I drag the heart into the shower, give it a good scrub, and take it to dinner. I place it on the table, nervously defending the imperfections and lying about its confidence. The eyes at the other side of the table have seduced me, and my heart and I always hope that some morning, those eyes could be the first things we see. However, we are often fooled by those eyes. Hidden behind them are various surprises that confine my heart to its corner. Most of the time, it’s an emptiness. The eyes are usually painted glass, and in the cavity behind them a wooden ball rolls around in paralyzing plainness. Upon finding these eyes, my heart and I return to the house, and I apologize for hurting it again.

It’s okay, my heart always says. But it is foolish and doesn’t remember well.

I’m nervous that we have already missed our home someway along the way, but there’s no way to tell until the end. For now, I keep my heart alive on the open road. It’s a comfortable, controlled life.

I should probably get a dog.