Today they will fix my heart.
Strangers, a number of them, will peer into my chest cavity and observe the pulsating muscle that falters every now and then, unable to cope with its impositions. Another human being will hold my pounding, pink life in their palm.
Unware of its history. Unaware of how it is to be trapped in my body, heaving.
Just another muscle to be opened, prodded, cleaned and fixed. Is there anything in their medical training that will have taught them to identify the watermarks of life, love, loss and pain embedded on my inner walls?
There is no surgical procedure to make this heart forget.
They can only sew me up, send me back and declare me well.
p.s. An attempt at fiction. No element of reality here.