swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churninside.So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, amoment. We are utterly open with no one in the end—not mother and father, not wife orhusband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone inthe house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, forfear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one personwho will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of achild, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time andwill, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter howferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up yourheart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and downit comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, theshatter of glass in the road, the wordsI have something to tell you, a cat with a brokenspine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancienthand in the thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morningechoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.
2/18/2020The American Scholar: Joyas Voladoras - <a href=''>Brian Doyle</a>5/5Permission required for reprinting, reproducing, or other uses.Brian Doyle(), an essayist andnovelist, died on May 27, 2017. To read Epiphanies, his longtime blog for the Scholar,please go here.()Comments are closed for this post.
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Humpback whale, Brian Doyle, Blue Whale, Fin whale, Minke whale, Joyas Voladoras