I keep her heart on the table by the door. It is so beautiful. When the sun hits it, even with only one small beam, her heart shines like it did in her eyes when she was alive.
She hasn’t been alive for a long, long time.
I don’t remember her face. I don’t remember much these days. Yet, ever since I found her heart at the antiques store around the corner, I feel more alive.
I sing again, bawdy songs from when we first started to date, about fair maidens and a-roving men. People have called me a daft old coot. They can talk.
They don’t know the love of the woman I married 52 years ago today.
I sit here and wait for the sun to shine. Putting a lamp by her heart doesn’t work. The shine is only on the outside, then. I don’t bother with that. I will just sit here, and wait for the sun to show me her heart.
It is beautiful, but not as beautiful as she was.
If only I remembered her face.