i. the eye-thief

the art gallery was open after-hours, and the burglar knew that if he did not strike now, he may never strike—not because the time would never be right again, but because he may be unable to muster up this much courage ever again.

he was no ordinary bandit, you see. stealthily blanketed under a star-speckled covering, he was quite peculiar, indeed. his every footstep landed with a smittering of anxious breaths from the portraits. they trembled with unease, knowing the nature of the crime that was about to be committed.

the crime had to be delicately operated, the thief knew. with the tips of his fingers, he lifted the maroon curtains to a portrait of a woman with a gaze that seemed to hold what dreams were made of.

he lifted his sky-stained cloak from the tip of his head, and leaned into the portrait. and when their gazes matched, something was irrevocably changed within the horizons, some click-and-tick within the universe’s clock.

and with one teardrop down the painting’s cheek, the crime was complete.

ii. sunflower eyes

the boy never meant to be an eye-thief.

he loved his eyes. they were perfectly-positioned, delightful things. as a child, he admired relatives that compared them to his sister’s, who had similar blue-green-yellow eyes.

and if her eyes were sunflowers, then her laugh was the seed that bloomed within the earth. she had one of those unforgettable laughs, bright and incandescent among the dreariest days. a fervent lover of art history, she would pull him from painting to painting and describe how the portraits felt and the history they were built on and their unique fate and always, always the eyes.

once, she told him “eyes never lie.” in every painting, the expressive eyes were her favorite, and she never knew that she possessed the very eyes she spoke of for hours on end.

the boy loved his eyes until he became the only owner of them.

then, he detested them.

iii. electric-blue eyes

upon the eve of discovery of this penchant for crime, the boy was crying.

he was somewhere else, between some alignment of time planes that forced him to restart a certain moment over, and over again.

he went to the door.

he did not say goodbye.

he slammed it in her face.

he never said “bye.”

and with red-blotchy cheeks and tired eyes, he stared at the painting in his room of a man who was surfing, cresting the waves with a gleeful expression on his face. he did not know what or how he was doing it, but he knew that he hated his eyes because they made him cry. and they were his sister’s eyes.

perhaps in living a more joyful life, the repetitions would cease. he would learn to live again. he would dapple in and out of many lives, seeing them through their eyes.

he would steal eyes.

and when night cast its wary eye across his bedroom, two electric blue eyes were staring up at the ceiling, swimming with bliss.

iv. the theft

in the vibrant sun, every step seemed to inject him with energy. he was touching the sky. he was full of all things. the boy was swimming in air. it cast a sheen around it all, giving him the insane hope, that perhaps, this was all life was meant to be. somehow being full of emotion, yet barely feeling at all.

and so the seed was sown in his mind of the museum theft. if he could only have a lifetime supply of gazes, of other lives, then perhaps he’d never have to see those sunflower eyes in a mirror ever again.

again and again, he yanked up the painting covers and glanced at the portraits, saving each one in his memory for future use. he would live in between these lying eyes forever, carefree and unaware of all things.

amber eyes filled him with sweet, dull contentment.

deep brown eyes engulfed him in comforting love.

deep-sea blue eyes created an air of mystery, of hidden stories.

dark green.

hazel.

gray.

hazy brown.

light blue.

black-brown.

until he came across a particular one, upon lifting the curtain, and fire filled his veins.

sunflower eyes.

and before he could undo the transformation, it was complete. his senses were heightened. he could see the way the air distorted around the candle flames and he could see his arm waving at a lopsided figure from behind the door and as the door opened to a young boy, a boy she had grown up alongside, and had been privy to every secret conversation, every whispered truth under the ceiling-fan, and every adventure among the hidden woods—and the boy slammed the door in her face.

but it is no worry, she thought, as she buckled her seat belt and started the car.

she loved him, and she knew he loved her, because he was her only brother, and she his only sister. and she knew words outran true meaning, and that sometimes the quantity of love bled out through the heart long after it had circulated throughout the body.

and in a flurry of unrelated thoughts, the air suddenly became on edge. the trees shook anxiously. the world held its breath. she had always been observant of all things, but this piercing hum was new. this stilled air, before the crash of lightning, was new.

this tumbling sound was new.

this bloodshot twilight sky was new.

this tilting steering wheel, this broken seatbelt, was new.

these medical ropes were new.

this bed was new.

this iv, dripping an unfamiliar substance, was new.

this ceiling fan, rotating along, along and along, was not new.

v. the eye-owner

he had commissioned that painting for her sixteenth birthday, as some sort of birthday gift. she was always an insightful person, and took to the sky and birds and trees for inspiration for her passion for painting. he knew she would love it.

and as memories and tears flooded through sunflower eyes, as the world increased in clarity and intensity, he realized how much he missed the small details. the humming of the radio. the sound of jets of water. the whirring of the ceiling fan.

he was undone, pulled apart like unspooling thread. and as the figure, dressed in the inky black of the darkest night, lowered the curtain of the painting, shock and despair flashed over his face.

“why didn’t you tell me this?” he wanted to shout. he wanted to call up, deliver a courier straight to heaven, to scold her. but even as anger and sadness remained, he felt a strange feeling reminiscent of catharsis.

living every life would be pleasant. it would still him, allow him to rest in dewy slumber. it would allow him to forget.

but what would a life be, without remembering those eyes?

he removed the painted-sunflower eyes and stuck them back on the portrait, where they belonged. one by one, he returned them all, and even stuffed the electric-blue eyes in his pocket, until all that remained were his true-sunflower eyes.

he still felt the gnawing feeling in his gut. tears still escaped every now and then. he began to learn a new cycle of living, in this time-zone rather than the next.

and those were still his sister’s eyes, and his sister said she loved him for life—

and eyes never lie.

I know you fold inwards,

Like the paper-mâché elephant in my room.

i. to that unfinished work-of-art

i know you fold inwards,

like the paper-mâché elephant in my room.

i know you hiss like the paper-dove

pinned to my ceiling fan.

my skin, i know you

separate like a paper-cobra—

all wide-eyed and undone.

and i know you often take to the sky,

and become the manuscript

flittering in the wind.

and like the mold plastered to the walls of my flat,

i know you are fragile as paper:

only one-millimeter thick.

bleeding lady,

sticky-noted, snipped, and covered in jotted words,

your inky tears congregate.

i know you are merely

a one-millimeter paper-mâché doll;

too brittle to make,

and too stubborn to fall.

And if there is some place worth falling—

I hope that place lies in your paper-butterfly tears.

ii. a nasty fall

glued pieces falling in hystery—

bought and brought by me.

arts-and-crafts:

a skin-on-skin dissection,

polka-dotted arms and diatribes—

i am a montage:

a paper-clipped conglomeration,

a tight-lipped, fair-headed devastation.

i am a collage

of every chewed, bitten, and spitted thing.

and if there is some place

worth falling, i hope that place lies

in your paper-butterfly tears.

and sometimes, as i lie to sleep,

in my dreams, i fly as a paper-bumblebee:

a flower-sipper and a drunken dancer,

until i am

hit

with

water.

If I am meant to be marred in constellations,

Let they be my only guide.

iii. surfacing

a skin-papery thing,

creeping up from the shallows.

lifted by buoyancy only to

watch waves capsize

like paper-mâché butterflies in flight,

covering my skin in tears.

chaos erupting like a chain of

shooting stars.

my paper world comes to life—

elephants, doves, cobras and dolls,

butterflies and bumblebees and paper shards.

so, shall it be.

if i am meant to be marred in constellations,

let they be my only guide.

let them show me through the night,

let them form paper fireflies:

tiny dots of

brilliant

light.

I know I can fold outwards,

Like the paper-mâché stars in my room.

iv. to that work-of-art

the water, my great foe—

come to rest on carved shore.

on it, tips a tiny paper-boat

of hope.

and if it comes the time

for the sails to be tested and the

wind nigh—

i know i can fold outwards

like the paper-mâché

stars

in my room.

introduction (amal):

Life is built around endings.

What a dull take on human life - isn’t it?

Yet, scientifically, some parts of the human body are only meant to live for moments.

A skin cell survives a few mere weeks, a white blood cell is limited to only a few days, and even neurons - as phenomenal as they are - eventually deteriorate as our age progresses.

Even in our daily course of events, we patiently wait for life to unravel, but everything eventually ends, right?

So imagine the astound which overcame scientists when they first observed a cluster of human cells which refused to die. They knew that they had stumbled upon something revolutionarily impossible.

Those cells had come from a woman who no one expected to change medicine.

Her name was Henrietta Lacks, and she never signed the form…

a brief history (amal):

Henrietta Lacks was an African American woman, who worked as a tobacco farmer. At the age of just 30 years old, she became a mother of 5. After giving birth to her fifth child, she felt a painful ‘knot’ inside her womb and experienced severe bleeding.

However, due to the segregatory laws and severe poverty faced by people of colour at the time, The Johns Hopkins Hospital was the only major medical center in that area which treated Black patients.

It was 1951 Baltimore, Maryland, when doctors at Johns Hopkins Hospital diagnosed Henrietta Lacks. When examined by Dr Howard Jones, a large, purple tumor was discovered on her cervix unlike any he had seen before.

He proceeded to cut a small piece of the tumor and sent it to the pathology lab, and it was at this hospital where tissue samples from her tumor were removed and cultured without her consent.

Not because anyone had asked her if it could be used for research - but because it was common practice.

The biopsy revealed she had a highly aggressive form of epidermoid carcinoma (cervical cancer). During her subsequent radiation treatments, a surgeon named Dr Lawrence Wharton Jr. took off two more tissue samples from Henrietta’s cervix while she was unconscious on the operating table. One sample was healthy tissue; the other was cancerous.

Once again, Henrietta was never told that these samples were taken. She never signed a consent form permitting research on her tissues.

The sample was then handed to cell biologist Dr George Gey, who had spent years of his life attempting to grow human cells outside the body for longer than a few days - something scientists considered almost impossible.

Every single attempt had failed.

Until they encountered Henrietta’s cells.

what made her heLa cells so unique? (amal)

Human cells obey something known as the Hayflick Limit, a biological clock built into almost every cell in our bodies. With each division, chromosomes lose tiny pieces of protective DNA called telomeres. The more a cell divides, the shorter these telomeres become, and the cell stops dividing and eventually denatures. It is one of anatomy’s safeguards against uncontrolled growth.

With this in mind, we know that normal cells have an expiration date.

Henritta’s did not.

Instead of slowing down, they would double roughly every 24 hours. Days, weeks, and months passed and the cells never stopped growing.

Scientists had then created the world’s first immortal human cell line, later named HeLa using the first two letters of Henrietta’s first and last name.

Despite this, it wasn’t immortality in the way we imagined it, and Henrietta herself died only a few months after her diagnosis.

So, what made them different?

Well Henrietta’s cells simply ignored the rules that every other human cell follows. And ironically, the answer was the very disease that ended her life.

The widely known definition of cancer is cells growing uncontrollably, but the biology is far stranger than simply that.

Healthy cells spend their entire lives responding and listening to signals from the brain, telling them whether to divide, repair, or even self-destruct. Cancer cells, however, ignore these rules.

Mutations disable the genes that normally suppress tumors while simultaneously activating genes which encourage growth. In Henrietta’s tumor, these mutations were compounded with an infection known as human papillomavirus (HPV) type 18 - one of the highest-risk strains associated with cervical cancer.

In simple terms, the virus inserted its own DNA into Henrietta’s genome, meaning the proteins produced by HPV disabled two of the body’s most important tumour suppressor proteins.

But there’s a missing piece to the puzzle.

A majority of cells lose their telomeres every time they divide but in the case of HeLa cells, they reactivate an enzyme called telomerase, which rebuilds those protective chromosomes constantly.

For them, their biological countdown disappeared and they began reproducing at an accelerated rate.

For the first time, researchers had a reliable population of human cells that could be grown indefinitely, and then it was finally created - a living laboratory.

a poetic interlude (ria):

from the viewpoint of Henrietta Lacks, as her cells are used throughout the world, long after she has died.

typing: h e l a . . .

1 1 0 0 0 0 r e s u l t s .

i am in multitudes,

configurations of collections

dispersed like the dreams

that once bloomed underneath my eyelids.

inhaling ambrosia

melting into the sun.

fragmenting like portraits of old

my amber eyes reproduced and regenerated

my spiraling brain catalogued and corroborated

in hazy midsummer mist,

a fragmented being

borne of maligned intent

and soaked in aphasia.

stolen from purgatory—

a remnant beast.

in your thievery

you have rendered me

a God.

but God, let me rest.

let my broken body decay

let me be memorialized among the wildflowers

let the ones i’ve loved dispel their grief

let my tears form rivers

and not be forced to crystallize in air

let me fly free of all things

please put me to rest.

when you plundered

me

you created a frankenstein.

a being, ripped at the seams, forced to live in segments,

the mere sentiment

of a dream.

glittering and immortal

crowned in saved lives and cures

but at what cost?

unextinguished, a phantom chained to this earth

forced to relive the life i never lived

through every individual worth saving.

and sometimes,

as i waft in through the sunlight

as i lie in the sunken petri dish

i stare at the sky.

my fingers are open and closed

existent and non-existent

a mere flicker of fate

a false chance

i sort

through endless possibilities

to find one that is

inevitable.

typing: h e n r i e t t a l a c k s . . .

t h e t e r m y o u a r e s e a r c h i n g f o r d o e s n o t e x i s t .

heLa cells today (amal):

The impact Henrietta Lacks’s cells had on science is truly not remembered enough - it’s difficult to overstate what those cells had changed.

Before HeLa Cells, scientists often relied on animal tissue or short-lived human samples which died before meaningful progress could be made. These cells changed the course of medical history almost overnight.

The first ever effective vaccine for polio was developed by Jonas Salk - who used these HeLa cells to test the vaccine on millions of identical human cells.

When researchers exposed these cells to radiation to understand DNA damage, and infected them with viruses to understand the spreading of infections.

Leukemia.

HIV.

Influenza.

Tuberculosis.

And eventually - COVID-19.

These cells provided immeasurable scientific help in understanding such diseases and even became the first human cells sent into space - aiding in the investigation on microgravity and its impact on cell division.

Over 70 years after Henrietta Lack’s death, her HeLa cells are providing valuable aid and shaping the future of medicine. They are still dividing in laboratories world-wide, and have outlived the scientists who first studied them.

In 2026, researchers use HeLa cells to investigate everything from cancer biology and viral infections to gene editing and personalised medicine.

As technologies like CRISPR and artificial intelligence become increasingly integrated into biomedical research, HeLa cells remain one of the most reliable models for understanding how human cells function and respond to disease.

In a plethora of ways, Henrietta’s cells are not simply a chapter in medical history; they are actively helping write its present and future.

but… what about henrietta? (amal)

In the end of all of this, this story taught medicine another lesson.

A lesson that has nothing to do with biology or anatomy.

Henrietta never knew and will never know that her cells are being grown in laboratories around the world - her family were unaware for decades as well.

As HeLa cells are distributed globally, commercialised by biotech companies, and cited in thousands of scientific publications, Henrietta died from the very cells that are expanding medical knowledge internationally.

Without her knowledge.

Without her consent.

This is why in today’s day and age, informed consent has become one of the biggest foundations in ethical medical research.

Every patient, no matter race, gender, or background, deserves to understand what is being obtained from their own body, why it is being used, and what risks could exist before agreeing to such a cause.

So, I ask you now - can scientific progress truly be considered progress if the person who made it possible never had a choice?

references:

Alberts, B., Johnson, A., Lewis, J., Morgan, D., Raff, M., Roberts, K. and Walter, P. (2022) Molecular Biology of the Cell. 7th edn. New York: Garland Science.

Gey, G.O., Coffman, W.D. and Kubicek, M.T. (1952) ‘Tissue culture studies of the proliferative capacity of cervical carcinoma and normal epithelium’, Cancer Research, 12, pp. 264–265.

Hayflick, L. and Moorhead, P.S. (1961) ‘The serial cultivation of human diploid cell strains’, Experimental Cell Research, 25(3), pp. 585–621.

Shay, J.W. and Wright, W.E. (2019) ‘Telomeres and telomerase: three decades of progress’, Nature Reviews Genetics, 20(5), pp. 299–309.

Stanley, M. (2012) ‘Epithelial cell responses to infection with human papillomavirus’, Clinical Microbiology Reviews, 25(2), pp. 215–222.

An invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle — but it will never break.

— Chinese Proverb

suppose you were to wake one day with a red thread wound around your finger.

would you follow it?

and if by happenstance, if you, led on by the red thread of fate, were then were to come across some kind of apparition walking the earth, would you fall in love?

despite skeptics and dream-lost believers, the world does write our stories. it pens them in blood-red ink and seals us to one another. it really does tie threads to our fingers, invisible as they may be.

for evidence, merely look to the sky.

millions of years of evolution have led insects to meet each other only when the frequencies of their wing-beating matches. they fly across the world, signaling, until they find the insect whose wings beat the same as theirs. until their harmonies converge.

resonance lives not only in the wings of insects, but also in vibrating strings. they say, if you play a perfectly pitched note on a stringed instrument, it will hum back to you. sympathetic vibration will bring the note you sent into the universe back to you.

the world is lined with paths that coalesce, resonant notes that guide us to where we are meant to be and who we are meant to be with. but it’s not just the universe that points fingers. our very bodies, our skin and bones, are constellations leading us to our destinations.

And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, the two are struck from their senses by love, and they don't want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.

- Aristophanes, Plato's Symposium

the ancient greeks believed that at the beginning of time, the king of gods, Zeus, grew angry with humans. in that primordial inky night, they were spherical creatures, immensely powerful and containing double of every organ. and so, in that raging, tempestuous night, he cleaved each of them in half with his great lightning bolt.

according to Aristophanes, every human is one of those halves to a whole, desperately trying to meet their other half and become whole again—to be restored to that beautiful, primordial being.

myths are colorful representations of reality. but there is some truth hidden within the most irrational of stories.

scientists have found that the mere presence of a loved one is enough to cause synchronization. heart rates and breathing patterns equalize. neural coupling results in similar activity in the brain. gestures and motions are mirrored. this peculiar mimicry is not unlike that of the insects, nor stringed notes.

perhaps star-crossed does not mean cursed by the stars, but crossed by them—guided to be perpendicular on a parallel plane, meant to have paths that cross in their lifetimes.

Finis vitae sed non amoris.

(The end of life, but not of love.)

sound, while 1,000,000 times slower than light, holds more impact.

it leaves a lasting legacy on this world. notes continue to hum long after they have stopped being played. resonance continues to write and rewrite this world long after the initial vibrations have been subdued.

before the mind can register it, the heart knows. it beats in unison with another. the insect’s wings beat. the note carves its way through the universe. maybe we are also halves of one another, maybe there is some inevitable string, and maybe we are guided by the stars.

or maybe we are guided by ourselves.

the bone marrow sings. neurons fire, in an everlasting firework show. fingertips flicker and tremble. breaths fly from the lungs like butterflies mid-flight. the heart beats.

the blood remembers what the eyes forget.

a conversation:

1. Over the years, has any moment while working in your profession still remained with you? Describe this moment.

   “Once, I came across a woman who had skin lesions all over her body. She was in a lot of distress. After months of treatment, her skin improved, her self-confidence was restored, and she responded with a beautiful smile that I still remember in my mind, and gratefulness I that still remember in my heart.”

2. If your career was one image, what would it be, and why?

   “I would say, ‘a radiant smile’ because I love when that is the end result.”

3. How do you personally process and deal with patients’ emotions as a healthcare worker?

   “I always try to empathize with and understand my patients. I really listen to them and then respond to their concerns. For me, I try to understand that these feelings are transitory—and are subject to change.”

4. What is the hardest conversation you have ever had to have?

   “Telling a patient about an unhappy prognosis of a disease.”

5. What something you once feared about your profession, but doesn’t scare you anymore?

   “Delivering bad news.”

6. What has your profession taught you about hope?

   “Miracles do happen in the medical profession. So, I try give my best care as a dermatologist, and keep strong faith and hope that has brought about miracles many a time.”

7. Throughout this series, we define a pulse as something that keeps us going, no matter what. It is the heartbeat of your work. As a healthcare professional, you must have a strong pulse that reminds you why your work matters.

   What is your pulse?

   “Knowledge. I strongly believe in the power of knowledge, enlightening mine and my patients’ paths. I keep updating myself with recent advancements, and try to bring light to my patients.”

a short poem:

a miracle-worker;

a bringer of light.

a spinner of fates,

coloring the world in silvery sinews.

an angelfish,

in fragmented waves.

a healer,

of blooms that afflict innocents.

miracle-worker,

someday, under the

festering sea that melts at your touch—

& someday, under the

blistering, burning waves—

& someday,

after delivering everyone ambrosia—

you will be granted the same.

“life is just

well-played russian roulette

spinning across the yard

bringing us to our ends.”

bit-by-bit,

corner by corner,

inky black creeps in.

coughing up

lake-water

and watching memories hit like craters:

sticky fingers and popsicles

under storm-bitten sky.

lung cavity,

brittle and in demise

echoing in gasps of air—

i lie there,

orphan to the wind and sky.

god, i wonder if

i took to the sky at this moment,

i would earn wings and fly.

unknown and unknowing,

the lost rather than the loser.

am not i

am not i

am not i—

a being,

short-circuiting

and set out to dry.

a muse of townshend himself,

ruined,

dismantled like the guitar he set to flames—

coming apart like unspooling thread,

like unspoken dreams and bitter ends.

waiting for a savior

believing i am unsaveable.

the fear collects, streams like water

running to its source.

back again,

to the rivers we came from.

am not i

am not i

am not i—

a beast.

cut out from the branches

of the copses of trees.

who would whisper breath

into the gaping mouth of

i?

who would lure life back in,

that luminescent creature—

to

i?

breaths come straggling in now,

like

fortresses to climb.

.

.

.

but i am the earth’s child.

and muddy may i get,

fingers soiled and broken,

tainted by the wrong choices,

these lungs belong to me.

this air i breathe—

potent and free

belongs to me.

and so do I,

I,

I,

in all my forms,

being or beast,

water in my chest

or spilling from my eyes.

I am unfixable—

until I believe myself

fixed.

you find me there,

sipping from the nectar of life

long before it graces my lips

100 compressions in a minute

push-and-pull

like that of life

steady, never-ending

and transcendent.

you blow breath into my accepting lungs

and I, for the second time

am brought back

to life.

“life is just

well-played russian roulette

every spin across the yard

is just another chance to live.”

a conversation:

1. Over the years, has any moment while working in your profession still remained with you? Describe this moment.

   “There are several moments that never leave your memory. Most of these patients had an unfavorable outcome and makes you wonder, if you could have done anything better or different.”

2. If your career was one image, what would it be, and why?

   “Me sitting with the patient and their family members, helping them understand their disease prognosis.”

3. How do you personally process and deal with patients' emotions as a healthcare worker?

   “Although it may seem that I am very mechanical with my patients after so many years of practice. I am still able to understand their emotions and provide compassionate care when I focus on things that I can do for them.”

4. What is the hardest conversation you have ever had to have?

   “Every week in the clinic, I have to break the news to 1 or 2 patients that they ‘likely have’ lung cancer. Similarly, the ICU is place where hospitalized patients commonly die and you get a healthy dose of “end of life discussions” during every ICU week. Those are the hardest conversations I have ever had to have.”

5. What something you once feared about your profession, but doesn't scare you anymore?

   “Talking to patients and families, especially when they have life-changing illnesses.”

6. What has your profession taught you about hope?

   “Never try to take away all hope from the patient, even if you believe you are correct. There are no absolutes in medicine and there will always be some patients’ outcomes that will surprise you.”

7. Throughout this series, we define a pulse as something that keeps us going, no matter what. It is the heartbeat of your work. As a healthcare professional, you must have a strong pulse that reminds you why your work matters.

   What is your pulse?

   “Helping people navigate through tough times when they are vulnerable gives you hope and the understanding that you are making a difference in their lives.”

a short poem:

and there,

the angel said,

you will find the most dazzling catharsis

and dreadful conundrum

of your life.

guzzling from the great nectar of life, she cried,

among the tears and beeping lights,

within the failing heartbeats and

violent cries—

tender-eyed, with that kind of smile

you only saw

once

in your life, she uttered,

never lose

that undying light behind your eyes.

for among and within those

virilent sobs

and end-of-life prognoses

hides—

she looks behind herself

childishly,

as if spilling a universal

secret

from her fairy-lips,

hope.

my fingertips move, burning at the surface of nothing.

my palm closes around air that wafts the scent of roses, cut and melted in the sun.

fourteen days and fifteen hours and twenty minutes since the operation.

back then, my hand would slice through the air like a certainty. my ears and heart were aligned then. the sounds rushing in through my ears were clear as day and vile as night.

back then, the cries of the ambulance were all that met my ears as i was lowered to my surgical fate. i remember the iv and the lifting bed and the concerned nurse and the trailing hospital linens and the hushed reassurances, padded in white.

“you will be fine.”

“you will survive.”

“you will live to see starry skies and sunshine.”

“today, nobody will die.”

amidst raised hair and heartache, i awake. the sky is violet, a scared thing. the coverlets are warm on my arms, almost suffocating.

fifteen days and zero hours and zero minutes.

like the cogs of a clock, i am immutably fixed to this time, to this irrevocably unmade world, to my arm, twisting out in front of me. red lights and shouts from outside, as the anesthesia sunk in. my limbs were suddenly ropes.

“you will be fine.”

what she meant to say was, we tread on lost souls here. to save your life, you will leave with a shattered brain and a stolen arm. you will leave with those shards of memories swirling in your head, no matter the time of day, no matter the torturous sight.

ages ago, it was dawn at the coffee shop, where my whole world existed.

“feeling is an abstract topic,” she had murmured. “what you feel to be felt may be different from that of others.”

“but what is undoubtedly true, is the feeling of love we share,” with a grin, i had remarked.

like twin sparks thrown to water, we burned until we bled. the gilded sky was alive back then, a fierce and unbreakable thing. you could not deny its feeling. you could not deny the warmth it bred with every ray of sunlight, with every wound it illuminated and healed.

i turn the doorknob, creeping out of the room to watch dawn break.

it never comes.

it doesn’t exist.

in the place where my arm should be, there is a hollow socket, a space where air and agony meet.

yet my wrist continues to swirl, like painting colors on an easel. like drumming my fingers along a drum. like holding her face between my fingers—

“darling, i will be back in fifteen minutes, for your surgery—”

i pick up the crutch and continue my steady climb down the stairs. i feel like a bird in water.

sixteen days and twelve hours and ten minutes ago,

i lost the love of my life.

my fingers, my hands, my arm. my passion. in that crowded room, with five nurses and two doctors, in the room next to the blaring ambulance, on the fitted sheets,

i lost it all.

and yet my fingers curl. they itch to be remembered, to be held. they long for so much more. i have ten fingers, two hands, and two arms, my brain whispers. my hand reaches out. my arm circles.

but i open doorknobs with my left hand. i point with my left index finger. i throw with my left arm.

i stumble to my bed.

my arms ache.

there is a loss so hollow, so profound, in this house. it leaves its mark wherever it steps, a phantom creeping in the dark.

left-handed scissors. relearning to write. the sound of crutches, scraping against the floor. false hands still holding and shaking.

the absence of a voice.

and what a voice she had. that timbre that dressed the air in sound, as brilliantly full of life as she was.

“you’re so worrisome, darling. i will be back as soon as i grab those extra blankets for you. you’re freezing. i will be back soon.”

how do you rewrite a memory? so it can escape your brain. so it does not lie there, a phantom memory, parallel to your phantom arm. a ghost, overcoming your senses and leaving you drowning in despair. how do you erase the sound of sirens from your brain?

when i woke up,

seventeen days and eighteen hours and thirty minutes ago,

she wasn’t there.

and as they rushed her fading body

up the stairs of the ICU,

i saw blankets in her hands.

my fingers tremble like a violinist, under thin air. with my left hand, i am attempting to write my name, over and over again, but i feel my right hand’s beating presence.

there is a hollowed space between my body and the air. there is another in my heart. i am in my home, but it does not feel like one, more like a collection of sticks and stone.

memories continue to ricochet in my mind.

“you will be fine.”

“you will survive.”

“you will live to see starry skies and sunshine.”

“today, nobody will die.”

yes, i suppose, i am anatomically alive. but there are no starry skies, and no sunshine.

perhaps one day, memories will fill that empty space. perhaps one day, i will find other small joys strewn throughout my life, and they will blossom like vines. perhaps one day, my love will return in the form of august rains and september swirls. perhaps one day, my arm will either dissipate or become some other, beautiful being.

perhaps one day, i will cease being a phantom, and simply be alive.

but for today, i am simply

fine.

i. the koi calls out

dum spiro spero.

while i breathe, i hope.

ii. the yellow river

ribbons

of yellow silt,

crossing over gasping fins.

breath cut short by

raging current:

such a traipse this is

to Dragon Gate.

watch me stagger in

like a wounded stag,

fated koi

tumbling in my chest.

under the broken altar of dreams,

watch me quiver with pain.

whether hope-ridden silence or

smiling strife;

both are eulogies in their own right.

in that lonely hollow of my ribcage,

lie those golden carps,

twisting and turning

in agony.

i fear i am cursed, as well;

every time i breathe,

a koi

falls

to Hell.

iii. waterfall

concentrated breath,

now empty air.

drifting through the currents,

lungs shriveled and heart broken.

my body: a riverbed.

my arteries: inlets of sediment,

rising

and settling.

yet the koi

survive.

tiny powerful hearts

in a cosmic storm.

wedded to valor and

betrothed to hope,

despite tumultuous winds

and deadly waters,

they persist.

bitter thing,

may the wind wipe

salty tears

and cleanse your soul.

dirty thing,

not a dirty soul

but merely a koi who has forgotten how to

live.

and one day

when your breaths become more than air,

when they are no longer proof of survival,

but a mark on the breeze;

when your tears become tides;

when your bronchi plant great forests;

when your ribcage holds the entire world;

you will finally arrive.

o’ tremendous koi,

held deep within the alveoli,

barreling up the side of the yellow river,

soaring, accelerating and brilliantly wild

may your ascent be met

with

triumph.

iv. dragon gate

those living, breathing beings

rise with my inhales

and fall with my exhales.

but they have reached

Dragon’s Gate.

scaled and aureate,

birthed of my sternum and

grown in my chest,

they leap the gate.

tiny koi,

as promised,

your salvation has arrived,

and soon,

the transformation is complete.

a towering, glittering dragon

stares down at me.

i mount the being of my own creation

and

fly.

Prologue:

Anna-Marie was a wing-hemming, fantastical, dynasty-creating angel.

But, her enchantments were words, her voice was the beckoning of medicine, her fantastical spells were treatments for every damned soul. She was in fact not an angel, but a beaming light, trimmed from the harrowing passages of hell itself.

Anna-Marie was a savior.

White coat-donned, shooting words a million miles an hour, she ran ahead of mystified men. She issued orders swiftly, but with poise. As a cardiologist, she saved hearts, but she didn’t just save them anatomically. She preserved her patients’ emotional hearts, buried them deep within her, and prevented them from breaking.

Young at heart and soul, she tried her very hardest not to let even one of her patients leave the world. Echocardiograms, angioplasties, and stents were like boons she granted from the bottom of her heart.

And here I was, her Cupid, trailing haplessly behind her like an arrow to the heart.

Anna-Marie turns to me, face shifting to affection in a heartbeat.

“Elias, question.”

I tilt my head inquisitively, expecting a medical dilemma.

“I have a terrible headache. It’s probably the new intern.” She grimaces. “Could you grab me a couple of coffees?” Her face splits open in a hopeful sideways-smile.

Amused, I retort, “That’s irresponsible, coming from a cardiologist’s mouth.”

“Hey!” she exclaims. “That isn’t your speciality. Go back to the Neurology Department, or even better, the coffee shop on Floor 2.”

“Alright, I’ll get your coffees.”

She beams at me, and blows me an air-kiss. And then, all lithe and feather-footed, she’s out of there in a flash, leaving me to my thoughts.

My mind is filled with Anna’s favorite song, playing on the radio this morning: Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens.

A cardiologist and a neurologist. An unlikely, but beautiful pairing. As I enter the elevator, the lyrics fill my brain with lilting consonants.

Oh, will wonders ever cease?

Blessed be the mystery of love.

Parados (Chorus):

You see, it’s but a careful play of fate.

Anna-Marie and Elias met ten years ago, and fell in love in medical school.

They bonded over five-day old macaroni and cheese, puzzles, and the human body.

Now, they both work at Central Hospital, and act like an old married couple, despite not being old, nor married.

But, they have plans.

Grandiose, beautiful plans of marriage, children, and a future living forever, side by side.

The brain and the heart, forever interconnected.

Neurons and arteries, stents and hope.

Till death do they part.

But, heed this warning!

Angelic cardiologist and Earthly neurologist, the skies conspire against you.

Cupid has his arrow ready, and the constellations plan your demise.

The hollow Heaven above yearns for your cries.

What cruel irony is this?

The one you love most,

You cannot fix.

Episode I:

Frustratingly enough, Elias doesn’t recognize his own genius.

He doesn’t understand that his untroubled mind and steady thoughts are his greatest virtues. In an instant, he can ground a patient suffering from Alzheimer’s. He can pinpoint the cause of a brain tumor, he can comfort a paralyzed innocent.

After my shift, I see those grounded eyes.

“You ready to go?” he utters in a bright tone, but I can see lines under his tired eyes. The man is exhausted.

“Just about,” I sigh. “Are you doing alright?”

Startled, he glances up at me. “I’m doing fine. A lot of patients, not a lot of time.”

I nod in understanding, but jot down a mental note for later. I can’t help it. Studying for symptoms is ingrained in my brain, from years and years of extensive reading and research.

He leads the way back to the elevator.

“No stairs today?” I ask, confused. A collage of memories, a vignetted photo album, a rough-and-tumble of coffee, stairs, laughing, and bright faces hits me all at once.

We always took the stairs.

He’s just tired. Nothing’s wrong. I’m overthinking it.

He presses the button and wraps his arm around me, attempting to comfort. It’s instinctive, always anticipating the needs of everyone around him.

“Anna, you worry too much. Save some of that heart for yourself,” he utters softly.

“I will,” I lie. “I promise.”

Stasimon I (Chorus):

Lord, I no longer believe,

Drowned in living waters.

Cursed by the love that I received,

The birthmark on your shoulder reminds me.

Episode II:

Anna-Marie’s head rests on my shoulder.

The sunrise is magnificent at this time of year, and neither of us can bear to get up from our spot on the porch swing.

She hasn’t been able to sleep lately. She says it’s just a small headache. She takes a painkiller and lies back down. But I can always hear her lying there, breathing shallowly, wide awake.

“Should we leave now?” I whisper to her, sensing that she is awake.

“What?” she asks, uncharacteristically, like a person woken from a hundred-year slumber.

“To work,” I explain. When she is still slow to react, I add, “The hospital?”

“Oh, yes.”

The sun continues to rise, lighting her tired features. She looks ethereal in this light, but worriedly fragile, like a bleeding angel, empty of all that blushed her cheeks with red.

Our apartment complex lies behind her, the one we’d hoped to upgrade to a home. A home filled with one boy and one girl and a large fireplace and the Rod of Asclepius. So many dreams, that we can hardly fit them underneath our eyelids.

“Anna—”

“I can’t right now, Elias, why can’t you understand?” Her voice is bitter and sharp-edged and I have never, not in my ten years of loving her, heard her like this.

“I’m leaving.” I am slow to rise, and it feels like my heart is breaking. I feel a sharp pain in my chest.

I travel to Central Hospital alone, lovelost and stumbling, wondering where those dreams disappeared.

Stasimon II (Chorus):

How much sorrow can I take?

Blackbird on my shoulder.

And what difference does it make,

When this love is over?

Episode III, Part I:

There is a creature staring at me.

Full-bellied and startlingly dark, it’s a monster straight from my childhood bed. It’s a thundercloud over my head, over my entire office room.

I live here, in the liminal space between denial and dread.

“Shortness of breath,” my cardiology teacher would say. “Chest pain. Irregular heartbeats, difficulty in completing active tasks.”

God, please go quiet.

My thoughts keep spiraling, a neverending train that this monster leaves in its wake. I’ve only seen three patients today, and I haven’t seen Elias all day, and there is this throbbing, shattering pain in my head.

Like a being wished on my command, he is suddenly in my study.

“Anna-Marie?”

He never uses my full name.

Our eyes meet each other, and I know he knows. I know he knows and he knows I know, and his eyes are red-rimmed and my vision is going blurry. I fall into his arms and my world is collapsing in on itself.

The one I love, my other half, as literal as the Greeks who believed soulmates were borne of one, is subject to the very disease I aimed to end.

Lub-dub, Lub-dub, Lub—

I can feel my heart stop alongside his. Everything is slow-motion, like a horror-film, like the monster of realization I have come to terms with.

He is falling to the ground.

I cannot save the love of my life, even though it is what I am meant to do. Even though it is what I have learned to do, for years upon years. Even though my heart beats with his, even though this primordial emotion runs through my veins.

Cardiomyopathy.

And it feels like my own heart is being ripped apart.

They say the romanticized version of the heart, used in Valentine’s Day bouquets, texts, and emails is a sewn-together amalgamation of two anatomical hearts.

That day, I, cardiologist, lost my heart.

Episode III, Part II: Allote (In the Past)

It comes to me with the pigeons, colliding into the window of the Neurology Center.

It comes to me with the midday sun, alarming and blistering my eyes. And it arrives, tucked into a careful envelope marked Anna-Marie Duvant.

I told her, she should try for at least one neurology screening and MRI. I ignored the signs, all of them, like a black cat traipsing across a silver street. The constant waking-up, the headaches, should have all been alarm bells in my head. I should’ve caught it sooner.

I open the envelope, and my fingers tremble.

A star.

Beautiful in every universe, in every galaxy, in every constellation, but not in an MRI.

And I have seen it before. In the tests in medical school, in the patients I treat daily, in every aspect of my life.

But not in the woman I love. Not in the wrinkles on her forehead, not in the whispers of her mouth, and certainly not in her brilliant mind.

Kaleidoscopic fragments of the past fill my mind. Golden-caged, flighty dreams, eager to soar and unknowing of the biting arrow soaring past.

She has one month, maybe two, to live.

I bite my tongue in pain, and a cry escapes my lips.

Not in the one I love. Not in someone I hold so dearly. Not in Anna.

A plea to an unhearing Heaven.

I, neurologist, leave the room, desperate to find the one I have lost my mind over.

Stasimon III:

Shall I sleep within your bed?

River of unhappiness.

Hold your hands upon my head,

Till I breathe my last breath.

Exodus (Chorus):

You see, it’s but a careful play of fate, a deal of cards from the heavens!

A cursed love, a doomed affair.

Brain-doctor dies of the heart.

Heart-doctor dies of the brain.

Doctors become patients and lovers become mourners.

Cupid shot through with a poison-tipped arrow of love.

The funeral of Elias and Anne-Marie was adorned in silver lilies, remembrances, and sobs.

A story told once, untold, and forever-told.

A ballad of two doctors, against the will of Fate.

As Sufjan Stevens would say,

Oh, will wonders ever cease?

Blessed be the mystery of love.

step 1: ignore all beeping sounds. focus on anything else.

10:00 A.M.

the monitor, baby blue in color but not in spirit.

blue-washed jeans and velvet sneakers on marble,

twisted legs.

stranger on cutout bed, wizened and corroded. a human-being formed of cardboard, melting at the edges.

a corduroy heart, with inseams four inches deep.

10:01 A.M.

father: kneeling in prayer.

mother: a castaway.

stranger on the stool, stranger in bed, stranger in blanket of tears.

stranger sipping pale orange juice.

outside,

tremulous wildflower

sole witness

to coronary heartbreak.

step 2: play the part. pretend to break your heart.

casket, coated in golden blooms.

amidst the may-flight of tempest bugs,

you pay your respects.

father tips his hat,

mother’s wails have no end.

sister sobs,

and brother already wept.

so you cry those polluted tears,

soaked in falsehood

and married to uncertainty.

stranger lies bare below,

beside the earthworms.

heart agape and mouth closed,

undone by mid-morning light.

step 3: let your heart break, but for the right reason, this time.

run-down barn,

lit by faded, dusky sky.

shadows trace the gliding windows,

holding their own funeral for the wind.

feeling but the

essence

of loss.

a gaping hole in your chest

where the memories should be,

golden and glorious,

but never made.

an unwritten history

of parallel bookshelves, honey trees,

and open sky. of held hands, spiraling trees,

and bittersweet light.

a world of all your loves,

but not for yours to love.

stranger is a stranger, after all.

a stranger of bluest-blue eyes, and undone hair.

like an starry-eyed poem in a language

known by all but you.

and when even the roses wilt, casting their spell across the brush,

when even the willows weep and the earth shatters,

when all the world attends the funeral and mourns, until all that is left is a

patchwork sky,

it seems fit

to pull that wretched organ out.

you are a broken clock,

a shattered fragmentation

a lover,

without

love.

step 4: confession.

“i didn’t

know

him.

like,

not in the way

knowing

is construed.

sure, i had

heard

of him.

but never

like

that.

and i’m sure

you loved him

as surely as the sky loves

cumulus himilis.

i am sure,

he means

something

to you.

but i will always know him

as

stranger.”

step 5: grieve for someone you never knew.

grief,

a forlorn, fascinating thing.

pretty bird of love,

collateral

and now catalyst.

stranger lives on in those you love,

flowing in the rivers of their arteries,

embedded in their blood.

their imprints are in the face you hold close,

the fingers you clasp, and the

eyes you find solace in.

you know this stranger.

you have known him every second of every day. you have known him for 568,036,800 seconds, 214 months, 18 years. you know him from tender glances, from inherited smiles, from kisses, and from the hearts of all those you love.

my dear,

you grieve for someone you never knew

by grieving for the parts of your loved ones

that have been lost.

Day 1.

Halia pulls the curtains open, letting a flash of light in. Birds alight in the sky, distorting sunbeams and sending refractions to my CD player.

My granddaughter joins me to sit cross-legged on the couch.

“How old is that thing? Was it from your time in the Record shop?” she inquires.

“About my lifespan,” I remark playfully. My words seem to dance today, sparkling like dim-lit conversations and sixteenth notes.

“Grandpa, it’s beautiful,” she utters, her palms reaching for mine. There is a sadness in her eyes, barely palpable, like the rush of fog over a midnight ocean. Young eyes shouldn’t hold such burdens.

Her heartbeat pulses in my hands, and almost instinctively I count out the rhythms.

1-and 2-and 3-and 4.

You see, I am a man of music. It runs through my bones, and it has ever since I first held that CD player in a closet in my college dorm, ever since I started working in records, ever since I was a young boy in Woodstock, tilting my head to stare up at the heavens.

Heartbeats have rhythms. I know because I have held countless in my palms throughout my life, close enough that I know that the sound holds music and the music holds melody.

I have held hearts before.

That of my dearest wife, lying bereft on a deathbed that dared to call her name. That of my daughters and sons, and of the lovely lady sitting beside me. Hearts have made more beautiful music than the longest sonata, the most evocative concert, the most dramatic solo. The beat of the heart is a lovely thing, scintillating despite destruction.

My thoughts are drawn back to Halia. Staring at the record player in her hands, she wipes at her eyes. She clutches hospital papers in her hands, carefully tucked away, but I am aware.

Dementia crept up on me, like a thief in the inkiest night.

I knew before I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and I knew the day I could not remember the names of the CDs in my cabinet, my favorites from years long gone.

I know now, that I will come to know nothing.

All I see are colors emanating from the bright CD player, the full spectrum of the rainbow, crossing and colliding in midsummer light.

“It is beautiful,” I whisper with a smile. “It all is.”

Day 100.

I trace the lines that form constellations on my hands. They blend, trying to find their way to each other, like trees under turmoil, like birds that long to be set free.

Dahlias bloom over my doorstep, coalescing in the garden out front.

Dahlia, Dahlia, Dahlia, Halia.

She is my constant, an unforgettable mark on my mind. It was she, who at the tender age of eight, planted these blooms and vegetables.

“You can’t just keep listening to music all the time, Grandpa,” she had exclaimed, prancing about the porch. “You gotta eat something!”

Planting dahlias, herbs, tomatoes, pulling anything from her little tote bag she could, Halia glowed. Her eyes were incandescent things, bright with youthful elation.

We’d sit down beside her long and tedious work afterwards, sipping lemonades, rays of dusk sun gracing our clothes with speckles. The porch was still sunlit-warm and Fleetwood Mac hummed in the background.

That was where we spent our time.

But the sky is dulling. The CD, with time, has begun to reject those brilliant reflections. There is a cloud of unfamiliarity permeating my thoughts, a lento fragmentation, coloring my world in dissolution.

I cannot begin to imagine a world without music. It would be the loss of windchimes, the loss of precious and precocious memories, buried beneath time and erased from the heart.

What a tragic loss that would be, of both mind and heart! Not knowing the rhythm of the rugged waves from that of the potent breeze, listening to Silver Springs without an etch of remembrance.

Lately, I worship a task I used to detest. Atop an iron stool, I used to peruse pamphlets, vinyl records, and vinyl covers; I would pull out my very own record player to test out a customer’s demands.

“Replay.”

“Replay.”

“Replay.”

Now it becomes a chant, a religious endeavor, a musical cry into the universe. It becomes a prayer, a silent wish on candlelight, a blow on a dandelion. A prayer to gain back what has been lost, to bring those ephemeral moments back to life.

Replay.

Day 500.

She visits daily, bringing in arrays of dahlias, as well as fervent blooms of peonies and roses. I know fear lingers in her mind, omnipresent and enormous, like a whole note on a page of rests.

My granddaughter thinks I will forget her.

But like a violin to its strings, like the never-ending symphony of life, we are called to each other.

A term I learned in my youth is sympathetic vibration. The universe responds to a call you make to it. You hum a note to a violin, it will respond accordingly. Its strings vibrate together when played exactly in tune.

My granddaughter is like a pulse into that universe. Every time she speaks, an echo of memories returns to me. Halia sitting on top of a car and giggling. Her parents watching with me, grinning, as she climbs the monkey bars for the first time. Her running wildly among bushels of flowers, picking and prancing like an acrobat, twirling her hair in 3/4 wind.

During one visit, Halia comes over and pulls out the tarnished CD player. I had kept it in my dresser drawer when it started to fray. She puts in a familiar-looking CD. In grave, she plants herself on the couch beside me and stares at me with a question in her eyes.

Do you remember?

And I do remember. I remember it all. My lovely CD player, from back in time. If I could just remember what song was playing at the moment, what strange and beautiful concoction of rhythms and rhapsodies was entering my ears, I would be just fine.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me,” it rings out.

Realization dawning on her face, she tucks the CD away. I feel a horrible sense of shame, clawing up my stomach. An embarrassment that consumes my insides.

The song is C major. 4/4 time. Syncopated rhythms.

But what is it called?

“Don’t worry about it, Grandpa.” Halia begins to polish the CD player, hiding her face from me. “It’s alright.”

Later I hear her humming to herself, in a sorrowful, quiet tone:

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.

I know I could have loved you but you would not let me.”

Day 1000.

Today, the sky mourns.

Black and inky and forged from tearstained clouds, it hovers over a hollow landscape. The pull of longing overcomes me on days like this, where I cannot remember much more save my granddaughter and music.

My college. My date of birth. My old address, back at the record shop. My favorite tune.

We lie in agony here, my thoughts and I. I count out the raindrops colliding with the roof. They fall in 6/8. Triplets.

My thoughts replay around a moment from a few weeks ago.

My granddaughter had brought over more vases of flowers, more seeds to plant in the garden. We were sitting outside, similar to the past, but somehow still dissonant. Her fingers trembled as they planted.

After a long silence, she had asked: “Do you regret it?”

Without clarification, I understood.

“No,” I had tilted my head to look her in the eyes. “How could I regret the blessing of having someone to forget? To hold a heart so closely that I experience loss from its expulsion? I could never regret the memories we made, despite them being lost over time.”

But I do regret not speaking to you more. Not holding you longer. Not watching your preschool days and refusing to let you see my records shop. I regret not whispering jokes into your ear more as a little kid. I regret not seeing you grow up.

I regret so much, yet nothing at all.

Regrettably, I leave this portion unsaid. She peers at my face, smiles bittersweetly, and clicks a CD into place.

“I best be going, Grandpa.”

“Alright, darling.”

The CD player is playing a song in C major and 4/4 time. There are thousands of glorious flowers, blooming outside. Peonies, roses, dahlias. The wind is whistling a melody since lost to time.

Dahlia, Dahlia, Dahlia ...

I lose my train of thought.

Day 3000.

Feet pressed onto soft soil, I observe colonies of ants. They seem to create their own symphony, thumping through blades of grass.

And soon a unique symphony meets theirs. The unmistakable sound of footsteps on concrete meets my ears. A girl stands there — no, a young woman, barely turned twenty. Her eyes are rimmed red and her dark hair is set astray, as if the turbulent wind saw no need for composure.

She looks at me as if I am some severed ocean, some sea breeze over mountaintops, some desert sand in a rainforest; utterly and permanently not where I am meant to be.

Her voice is diminuendo when she utters, “Grandpa?”

It triggers no memory, no landslide of emotion, no surge of recognition. I’m not sure I have children, and I certainly do not have grandchildren.

It must be evident on my face, because she shirks away, her face wounded. In this light, she looks like a deer racing over the road, shot twice with arrows, only to be met with blinding white.

Empathy fills my bones. Clearly, this stranger has been torn apart and set adrift.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I offer, kindly.

She nods in response, shaking.

We enter into a calm, still conversation. Her demeanor steadies, but I still see remnants of anguish in her eyes. She tells me of the wonders of her job, how she just started working for a record company, how she follows in her loved one’s footsteps.

I tell her of the music of the tiny Earth we live in. How every living being has the capacity to create it. There is melody in breathing, in speaking; there is rhythm in heartbeats, in movements; there is ringing in windbreakers, in glassware, in snowglobes, in the Earth itself.

It is a mellow, lovely sort of day. Ants, peachy skies, and a kindhearted meeting of souls. Sitting on the porch, listening to birdsong, and watching a tender blue sky melt into purple.

Nearby, there is a CD player, on replay.

do not rescuscitate.

let the heartbeats slow, until they have merged with the quiet hum of the afternoon, subtle and wavering. let the eyes close to the blinding sun, let the limbic system die out, like a million bulbs on december 26th.

it is so simple, so effortless to stop the heart. to let the world’s emotions and conversations flow through unresponsive arteries, sediment rising and settling in veins. to soak your limbs in aphasia, to color your heart gray, and to sever all connections to the sky and soil.

constantly regretting your heart. knowing that without it, suffering would not sting. it would not pull at your heartstrings, but fall off of you like a sunbeam in winter, a thunderstorm against a bulletproof coat.

and when the fifteen year old has leukemia and the child who has not yet learned to speak is fighting horrors and the woman will not live to see her grandchild’s birthday and the world is ending at your fingertips, it may seem impossible to restart that broken, battered organ.

but apathy is not agency. it is not an anchor, it is not plated armor, and it will never be your saving grace. cutting off your heart will not heal your wounds, recreate broken arteries, or fill veins. muscle atrophy will become a weight on your sternum, pressing incessantly, the ghost of a pulse knotting within.

how can you betray that wild and beautiful thing?

that heart that has stood the weight of time, helped you run across the playground as a small child, pumped love into your arteries, and lined your veins with affection.

and no matter how much agony it has put you in, is it not true that it has not done so in vain? and thus it sings the bittersweet chord of life: the major and minor keys, tears of joy, the sunset after summer, and brilliant hope in deep inkwells of doubt.

removing your sorrows will dim your joys. reducing the ebb and flow of emotion will dull feverous, flowing passion. losing your heart will erase your greatest hopes and dreams.

and isn’t it a great blessing to live deeply? to let your heart split open to feel those beautiful, impossible things. to open it up to the incandescent world, that ephemeral and incomparable thing.

the sound of lightning.

the feeling of clouds.

the color of emotion.

the scent of sky.

the hum of the trees.

the song of the mountains.

the poem of the heart.

you must never forget, despite every mistake and blunder, every lost hope, every broken dream, every tragedy, and every tangle of emotions,

do not regret having a heart.