I can hear my heartbeat when I sink down, holding my nose, wanting my whole head to get covered by the bathwater. I stay under for as long as I can, so I can listen to it. It sounds exactly like in the movies, when two soon to be parents get an ultrasound of their baby, and they hear the teeny-tiny proof of life, pounding for the first time. Then they look at each other with tears in their eyes, knowing that it will all be okay, and no matter what, they’re gonna figure it out. Their excitement outweighing their fear and worry. I wonder if my parents had a sappy, hallmark moment like that. It’s weird to think that inside me is the exact same heart, beating the same beat as when I was inside my mother. I haven’t spoken to her in four years, today.
I keep popping my head outta different bathtub waters, coming up for air, waiting to feel reborn. Baptism by faucet stream. But it’s still the same old heartbeat. I recently read that the heart holds memories. People who get heart transplants …
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