My heart shattered.

Broken pieces. I gather them up in my skirt and look at them through my tears.

What a mess. I’m scolding myself, I should have been more careful. Now I’m left with a heart broken all over the place. All these bits and pieces. They begin to slip from my skirt turned makeshift basket.

One piece, in particular, catches my eye as it falls to the floor. A memory, still vivid, yet blurred by my tears. That one, that piece is the feel of the first time he touched my thigh. That piece carries with it a sexually charged energy, excitement. I don’t want to misplace that one. Another one floats near. It’s a smell, warm and heady. The smell of frankincense and patchouli of clean and exercise. The scent distracts me. I kneel slowly, carefully. My skirt basket is full. And it doesn’t matter how careful I am more pieces begin to fall. Memories, the first time we saw each other, his singing voice, the feel of his hand on my cheek and my chest, the words said and secrets whispered. I’m crying harder now clinging wildly to all the broken pieces of my heart.

I need a bigger container. I look around but all I see is my undone empty bed he just left. I smash down the blankets and dump all the pieces in. Some of them land and some float away. How will I ever recover all the broken pieces of my heart?

I am tired. I lay down among the pieces and make a nest. Curling up with what I have left, I gather them around me. Crying, I’m at a loss as to how to repair the broken pieces of my heart. I sigh. I know I will eventually have to stitch them back together. But I am so tired, and any hope for a working beating heart is gone.

What I want to do is look at them one by one, to feel it all again, as I put them in a box. Seal it shut and tomorrow when I can breathe a little bit more, send them to a watery grave in the Lake. Watch them float away and sink to the rocks on the bottom. The box disintegrating and releasing all the broken pieces of my heart to be baptized and given new life far away from me.

But in the end, I will gather each broken piece and sew for a long time. Each broken piece, sharp and cutting, my fingers and hands bleeding as I stitch. The pain will be unbearable. But I will sew until my broken heart starts beating again. Lopsided, ugly, and full of holes, but formed enough to put back in my chest. I won’t look at it too closely, or think of him. It would shatter again.