Chest Pain
Four chambers housed in powerful muscular contractions. The top two squeeze tentatively, the bottom ones leap through the chest. All of them coordinate from the first teary intake of chlorinated hospital breath until the day air is recycled, never to return to the throat where stories are born, where the seed of your resonant laughter used to germinate.
I never suspected that the rumble of your war-tattooed chest would be how I’d lose you. A beating heart is all a body should need. The diagnosis was Enlarged Heart Syndrome. I failed to understand why they intoned the news like they were reporting a death—I agreed with the diagnosis. With my own wide eyes, I have watched your enlarged heart pump vigorously for family—a word you never bothered to define so that it meant everyone was covered, like universal insurance.
Lub dub to power limbs that dug soil with an oak tree handle continuous with the bark of your sand-papered skin. Lub dub to accelerate the oxygen delivery required to toss Coca-Cola crates from the dusty trunk of a Toyota Hilux. The merchandise landed gently on the shelves, guided by the practiced sturdiness of your bare hands. Luuub duuub as the moon eclipsed the sun and your heart slowed but did not stop as you whispered to me over the phone that hard work was the secret to success as well as a lot of Faith in God.
I can still smell the grief on Mama’s lips as she tried to explain that you were drowning in the fluids of your enlarged heart. The doctor had told her sekuru’s body could no longer handle such a dysfunctional engine. I interrupted, nearly yelled—that engine had always powered his life, one he so generously shared.
I can no longer sit through learning the anatomy of the heart. Listen to them extol sinews of tendons and tendrils of nerves. I cannot contemplate memorizing the structures that failed in you but continue to work in everyone else. The worst part is knowing that sekuru blamed himself. He couldn’t command his heart to do the additional work that would keep him alive. Sekuru, rest knowing that for once, that labor was not yours to fulfill. It was ours.
Image by Robert Frank