Fragile

When the removal men came, she told them to take her heart. She handed it to the burly one, not because he was in charge, or because he reminded her of Jack – he didn’t. But because it was heavy and he seemed as if he might be able to bear the weight with those callused hands and muscle-thick arms. The younger men muttered and shuffled away. They set to the business of loading crates and bedside cabinets. She told him that it didn’t function properly, so he shouldn’t mind if he dropped it. It wasn’t considered valuable like the bone china or crystal vases. (They were in marked boxes.) He held it in his hands as if it were an endangered species, squeezing on the throb of the pulse. She thought she wouldn’t mind so much if he crushed it, and told him so with a quick laugh. But he tore a strip of bubble-wrap, and took great care around the vena cava: superior and inferior. He allowed space for the pulmonary openings: arteries and veins. He waited to load it, and tucked it between the faded wedding album and Jack’s painting of their last holiday in Yamanashi. Then he labelled it in red marker to ensure she could locate it, if ever the occasion arose.