Trish Dugger

We barge out of the womb with two of them: eyes, ears, arms, hands, legs, feet. Only one heart.  Not a good plan.  God should know we need at least a dozen, a baker’s dozen of hearts. They break like Easter eggs hidden in the grass, stepped on and smashed. My own heart is patched, bandaged, taped, barely the same shape it once was when it beat fast for you.