She was born with water in lieu of a heart. A petite ocean inlet where the cave of muscle should have been. The ebb and flow of tides replaced the pulsing of valves.
Her parents were aghast. Abandoned her on the words “we expect she’ll live only two hours.”
They should have waited for the shaman in the taxi. He arrived unexpectedly, unannounced. A glass stone, in the shape of a heart, held between palms. Tenderly placed within the tiny ribs. His unintelligible chant channeled the water. Slowly, the liquid assumed the shape of the glass. It kept time with the moon.
Impossible. Probable. It is the essence of water to seek its own level. To extend itself into the form that embraces it.
As she grew, doctors warned against heated emotion. Fear, hate, worry – all might agitate surface tension. Love, passion, fulfillment would assuredly create waves.
Her life was galvanized by complacent consistency. Placid. Restrained.
And then she met him. Eyes the color of a dolphin’s sigh. Skin the shade of shipwrecked hulls. Voice the envy of a conch shell gospel choir.
Their initial kiss set off a typhoon within her. Salt water cresting on her lips.
Then came the tsunami. Eroding the glass. Releasing her liquid heart into a tidal wave of love.
Between Now & Zen 