Hope Chest: What the Heart Teaches

Hope Chest: What the Heart Teaches Dear Heart: For her science project, my daughter has chosen you. She's asked for my help. Four boxes are on the form. I will need assistance: some, a little, a lot. I have afew supplies. Her teacher's letter explains the problem need not be large, for example: think why thefamily cat claws the sofa. My daughter is thirteen, the age I was when the Beatles arrived and put girls into screaming fits. The three survivors (George, Paul, Ringo) are making a comeback, though I'm not sure why. Why reinvent the sixties: Kennedy in Jackie's lap, the endless bloody war? My daughter is busy tracing the vena cava, she pauses, Does it ever stop before we die? And I'm reaching for answers like a can of pepper on my shelf. I want to tell her about that first dance in the old gymnasium. There was a boy: short, polite, thick glasses. He asked me to slow dance; we moved chest-to-chest. It made me dizzy, a little short of breath. Something not governed by reason had me, a journey started, and I passed from one place to another. Do you remember, heart, how that sweet boy moved away in July, his father transferred? How you taught me to sacrifice cargo and lighten the ship's load? Heart, please notice how carefully she colors her graph on bypass surgery. How many attacks can one person have and survive, Mom? I believe it depends on the person and where the damage occurs. Some places in the heart can recover easier, but the heart is never the same. I mean, there's scar tissueforever. Did you hear that, heart? Look at this science project scattered around the kitchen, books, helpless before the steamy breath of my fried chicken, pages describing your constant bath of warm fluids, the coming in, going out, vessels like ivy vines embracing your pink cottage of four small rooms. You have lived the soft forest, a rose, an apple, radiant in your crimson dress. No prince could reach you, chop you down. Out here, leaves burn. Every day is a torn jacket, worn lapels, wind and sand slap the sclera. We feel the random movement of jaw bones and floor joists. And what have you planned for this child printing her note cards on resuscitation and brain death? Today, I'm wearing my favorite skirt, the one with huge pockets, a wedding band, my navy sweater's on the rocker by the desk, beside my daughter's baby shoes, some paper, this pen. I'm going into the next room to ride the stationary bike, ten minutes or five miles. Be ready, ready for anything, comb your red hair and smile. —Jeanne Bryner 61 ...