Hearts are tricky things.
Sometimes they break.
And I don’t mean break in the metaphorical, grief diet, lovelorn way. That “I can’t stop listening to ‘Sail’ by AWOLNATION on repeat” kind of way. The self-consuming survivor aftermath of a broke down relationship kind of way.
I mean the “I’m not ticking. I’m not pumping. I’m not fucking humping along anymore” kind of way.
39 is young for a heart to dissect and peel apart. To aortically depart from the norm. Her body so tired that even hope of an import made the tissue teary and weary and grave. Thinking of all that work it became impossible to breathe.
That moment when a hearts break for real.
And those who remain? The physically unbroken? We’re left with that flash of understanding that fades too quick: Hold tight to people we love, make the zine, take the trip, do all the things do them now, do them before you can’t. Thanks for the kindness you showed me Deborah.