The spackling of my own heart
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- February 12, 2023
- 876
I didn’t ask for things to change. Life careens us around corners as humans fail and love falters, leaving us to pick up the wreckage left on the ground. The pieces no longer fit together as they once did, and knowing this is key because a patchwork is all that’s left. But just like a painter carefully patches a hole, filling in the crevices with joint compound and using a sponge sander to smooth the spot that was damaged, we will always know where the hole was.
But hearts can be spackled too.
George and I have fallen out of love with Valentine’s Day. It feels different as you grow older and have less patience for the false positives of it when you know every minute is a gift, the very breath of our lives imminently surrounding us. We made dinner reservations the week of, and a solid cocktail and friends you can laugh hysterically with sound better than anything I could plan.
I might wear red and put on my swingy coat, and maybe we will hold hands as we sometimes do, but not always. I’ll apply some scarlet lipstick and look into his dark brown eyes, the very ones that exude lightning and that I battle with in one second and roll on the floor laughing in the next. I almost lost him and we each other, but we caught ourselves once more, as we almost always do, but nearly didn’t.
Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday eight years ago. February snow was moving in through a darkened sky, and I remember gazing out the window in wonder as level after level was called in ours and surrounding counties. We had reservations at a new restaurant called Tapas, and throughout the day there was never a question that we wouldn’t go. It would be an adventure on the snow-covered roads as we donned our best.
It was a wonderland of beautiful fat flakes, and we arrived at the restaurant without incident, enjoying a meal of Spanish delights in several rounds of courses. I took a picture of George in the little alley in which the restaurant was located, twinkling lights zigzagging above as the snow continued to fall. He was wearing his favorite scarf and jacket and smiling at me with that boyish grin that always made me flutter.
Afterward we crept into a packed theater for the newly released “Fifty Shades of Grey” movie, and the electric current that ran through the seats was something I won’t soon forget. We made it home very late and fell asleep deeply under the warm covers and slumbered heavily.
This is my favorite memory of this day, and I don’t know why.
We aren’t teenagers anymore, and every ounce of energy we put into our relationship is on purpose. I used to think we’d be forever young. I was firm in my belief that our bodies were strong, sturdy even, and able to weather every tempest sent our way. I believed him to be a knight, that cursed image that persists in tales of love and adventure.
But really, we’re both just humans with failing hearts and angry tongues that must sift and stir our love, baking at 350 until it’s done. Sometimes the finished product is a cake in the shape of a heart, and sometimes it’s a heap of overbaked crumbs. Crumbs require coffee to swallow, or they’ll get stuck in your throat forever, so we pour another cup and try again.
Someone once told me that “clear is kind,” and I wanted to tattoo the words on my forehead. I post pictures and write stories of our life together, and if I’m being clear, not all those days are good days. Some days I want to throw my heart into the ocean and float on a door, like Rose did in “Titanic,” until I’m rescued.
It’s then I remind myself that hearts, too, can be spackled and repaired — if we want them to be. Just make sure you get a professional painter with a patched-up heart to do it. Happy Valentine’s Day.