@neverlee

2018 Before I go out, I sketch the animal from which I will uproot the heart. On the way there, I massage it in my palm, just as he taught me. People imagine life differently, but not him, not us. When he closes his eyes, I’m fascinated and impatient, knowing the ceremony is about to begin. He invented the ritual a few months after his grandmother passed away. The dance, the promise everything circles the blood oath and a vague, half erased memory of a childhood bond between us. With bleeding hands, we wrap the heart, finger to finger, line to line, and we listen. It's God. Just in time, he speaks to the experts. All that separates them from us is a heart and a sketch in my room. Strange looking heart. I always thought a heart turned black after death, but this one stays pinkish, almost as if it’s blushing. The room fills with smoke. The tin bin we use as a campfire, boils and vibrates, hovering just above the floor. Black clouds cling to the walls as he begins to pray. Time around us folds in on itself, shrinking, allowing silence to take on a mighty roar. Gently he places the dead bird on the keyboard. Where the heart once was, there is now compressed tissue white at first, then soaked in deep red. From a distance, it looks like an exotic flower has grown there. Empty of words, we watch the bird, and the walls begin to breathe. Everything starts to move. The room becomes the heart, and the tubes that connect us to it are now visible. And for a moment, unmistakably we are alive.

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