My heart. After 67 years, it’s been through a lot. At rest it beats 55 times a minute. It tops out at 170 beats a minute during a strenuous day at the gym. It glows with love for my children, my husband, my friends. It is strong and fierce. It bucks up when I’m afraid, and melts inside an embrace. My heart swells with pride when my kids do good things, and aches when they struggle. It blossoms when I do something that makes me proud, or when I accomplish an important goal.
Fear makes my heart shrink, and sorrow has left permanent scars. Depression takes away its light, and stress its color. When I have a serious worry, it beats under the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest. My heart breaks when it encounters evil and injustice, and it struggles to remember to “look for the helpers”. After 67 years, it’s tattered and bruised, but, remarkably, still resilient and still hopeful. It seeks comfort in a hug. My heart waits for the sunrise that brings a new day – everything looks better in the morning. It knows that a tough workout can ease pain and worry. It has learned that joy will follow grief, eventually. It’s marked forever by my tears. But it’s beautiful.