for a connection to the heart surviving my wife—her mother?
“Inside,” I tell her, pointing to the front door. “We only have a few minutes because I have to get back to work with Uncle AJ.”
“Not until you read it, Daddy,” she says, walking ahead toward the door.
We sit down on the couch as Olive peels her backpack and sweater off. She pulls her leg up and twists toward me, waiting with eagerness. We haven’t received a letter in a couple of months and I was beginning to wonder if things had gone wrong in this woman’s life. But as long as her heart is beating and she’s well enough to write this letter to me, it all has to be okay. I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and tear it open slowly, keeping the envelope intact.
Whenever I pull one of these letters out, my stomach turns heavy and my chest tightens. I find it hard to swallow or conjure up an intelligent thought. This isn’t just a letter from a stranger. This is a letter from the person caring for the last of what is left of Ellie.
When I was a child, I remember Mom telling me that when a person dies, it is only their body that passes on because their soul remains intact forever. If a soul stays behind, wouldn’t it make sense for it to remain attached to the heart that created this soul? I know it’s a foolish way of thinking, but it makes sense to me. I know the body I fell in love with is gone, buried deep under the soil of this world, but the heart I watched grow with age, the heart that adapted to a greater love as life evolved, perhaps it is sheltering at least a part of her soul that remains. At least that’s how it seems from these letters I continue to receive.
My hands shake as I unfold the typewritten letter. “Daddy!” Olive snaps me out of my haze. “What does it say?”
I wish the letter were created with handwritten words, offering just one minuscule hint of who she is.
Dear Mr. Cole,
I stood on the cliff of a mountain today and took a breath of sweet summer air. I closed my eyes and felt warmth embrace her heart—it felt full, as if it were taking up all free space in the cavity of my chest. When I squatted down and stretched my arms over the ledge, the strength of her heart pounded harder and sped up as if it were knocking on my ribcage, reminding me of her presence. This heart is so alive. I am alive.
When I laid down along the stony rippled edge of the cliff, I placed my hands over her heart and stared up into the sky, feeling the brightness overwhelm me as if heaven were covering me with a blanket, and her heart calmed under my touch. I felt her. I felt her life living within me, and I am grateful. I am alive because of her, just as her heart is alive because of me. The connection was strong today and I knew I needed to send you this letter. I hope it offers you a bit of comfort through the pain that must follow you around like a dark shadow.
Take care,
Her Heart
Rather than soak up the beautiful words from this stranger who might be the most familiar person in my lonely world, I can only focus on the mountain, and the question of where this mountain is. I need to find it, in hopes of finally meeting this woman. Although, I shouldn’t be dumb enough to think she’s just sitting around some mountain waiting for me to show up.
“Maybe she was at that mountain Grampy took us to last year,” Olive says. Mountain. What mountain? I don’t know if this woman even lives in this state, or on this side of the country. I don’t know how she knows who I am, and I certainly don’t know who she is. I always thought the donation and recipient process was anonymous. I’ve contacted the hospital several times, pleading for information, but each time I have been led to another roadblock. I did find out that this particular donation wasn’t completely anonymous, but the recipient requested to keep her identity private. I’ve looked up the laws and it doesn’t add up. Any time I’ve tried to
“Inside,” I tell her, pointing to the front door. “We only have a few minutes because I have to get back to work with Uncle AJ.”
“Not until you read it, Daddy,” she says, walking ahead toward the door.
We sit down on the couch as Olive peels her backpack and sweater off. She pulls her leg up and twists toward me, waiting with eagerness. We haven’t received a letter in a couple of months and I was beginning to wonder if things had gone wrong in this woman’s life. But as long as her heart is beating and she’s well enough to write this letter to me, it all has to be okay. I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and tear it open slowly, keeping the envelope intact.
Whenever I pull one of these letters out, my stomach turns heavy and my chest tightens. I find it hard to swallow or conjure up an intelligent thought. This isn’t just a letter from a stranger. This is a letter from the person caring for the last of what is left of Ellie.
When I was a child, I remember Mom telling me that when a person dies, it is only their body that passes on because their soul remains intact forever. If a soul stays behind, wouldn’t it make sense for it to remain attached to the heart that created this soul? I know it’s a foolish way of thinking, but it makes sense to me. I know the body I fell in love with is gone, buried deep under the soil of this world, but the heart I watched grow with age, the heart that adapted to a greater love as life evolved, perhaps it is sheltering at least a part of her soul that remains. At least that’s how it seems from these letters I continue to receive.
My hands shake as I unfold the typewritten letter. “Daddy!” Olive snaps me out of my haze. “What does it say?”
I wish the letter were created with handwritten words, offering just one minuscule hint of who she is.
Dear Mr. Cole,
I stood on the cliff of a mountain today and took a breath of sweet summer air. I closed my eyes and felt warmth embrace her heart—it felt full, as if it were taking up all free space in the cavity of my chest. When I squatted down and stretched my arms over the ledge, the strength of her heart pounded harder and sped up as if it were knocking on my ribcage, reminding me of her presence. This heart is so alive. I am alive.
When I laid down along the stony rippled edge of the cliff, I placed my hands over her heart and stared up into the sky, feeling the brightness overwhelm me as if heaven were covering me with a blanket, and her heart calmed under my touch. I felt her. I felt her life living within me, and I am grateful. I am alive because of her, just as her heart is alive because of me. The connection was strong today and I knew I needed to send you this letter. I hope it offers you a bit of comfort through the pain that must follow you around like a dark shadow.
Take care,
Her Heart
Rather than soak up the beautiful words from this stranger who might be the most familiar person in my lonely world, I can only focus on the mountain, and the question of where this mountain is. I need to find it, in hopes of finally meeting this woman. Although, I shouldn’t be dumb enough to think she’s just sitting around some mountain waiting for me to show up.
“Maybe she was at that mountain Grampy took us to last year,” Olive says. Mountain. What mountain? I don’t know if this woman even lives in this state, or on this side of the country. I don’t know how she knows who I am, and I certainly don’t know who she is. I always thought the donation and recipient process was anonymous. I’ve contacted the hospital several times, pleading for information, but each time I have been led to another roadblock. I did find out that this particular donation wasn’t completely anonymous, but the recipient requested to keep her identity private. I’ve looked up the laws and it doesn’t add up. Any time I’ve tried to
Similar Books
