Heart

It occurs to me this morning.

What does it mean to do something with your heart?

I am eating cereal. Chex. With a glass of milk. This seems indulgent. All this milk. But I also have toast with butter.

But it gets to me, this doing things with your heart.

Once I start thinking about it, really, really think about it, it doesn't make sense. The heart is just an organ and who chose to assign this organ such an important role? "Warden," I say. Warden doesn't lift his head, just his eyes. This makes him look interested in what I have to say. "Warden boy, who gave the heart so much responsibility?" I say. "Regrette," with her sad eyes, "Regrette, what do you do with your heart?" The dogs are just hungry. Not hungry philosophers.

Who said, "I am doing something. Ah, I am doing something, with my heart, it seems!" Who? Who was it that said this and told other people about it? And why did these people agree? Why not, "I am doing something with my teeth? Hair? Arm? Collar bone? Tongue? Left eye? Pinky toe? The first part of my small intestine? My lungs?!"

Who jumped off the bridge with this person?

Let me tell you. I've done many things and is it sad to say that I don't know whether or not I've done anything in my life with my heart?

I make butter. Better butter. But how do I know that I've made it with my heart? Will it taste differently? Look different. Feel different?

Tell me. I want to know.

Tell me with your heart.