Today is a day of hearts. Frilly paper ones, professing undying Hallmark devotion. Floral ones, by the dozen, care of Cupid’s weary delivery boys. Culinary ones, consumed in a collective conflagration of candlelit tableaus. But the only heart that I am concerned with today is that which beats in her breast, for, as you read this, I am probably sitting in a surgical waiting room while she’s being prepped for a cardiac catheterization. Waiting. Worrying. My own heart, hurting.
She works harder than I do. At everything. Not because she has to, but because it's who she is. She's a wonder. But lately, as she’s busied herself about, she’s been feeling some discomfort that a stress test has determined to be probable arterial blockage. Given her family history, it’s no surprise, but it’s stunning just the same. I was supposed to be on a plane for Abaco this week, but the doctor’s pointed use of the phrase “without delay” changed all that. I sit here instead, no regrets, happy that we've gotten out in front of this and scared all the same. February 14th has new meaning.
So there's no elaborate cards, or flowers, or romantic dinners this particular day of hearts. It's become quite simple.
The only heart that I want is hers.