38
Mom handed me the heart. She probably said, “Careful, it’s hot.”
“You ate the heart?”
“Yes, I ate the heart.”
It was chalky. I remember biting into it. Chalky, with a sort of Styrofoam-y texture. I finished it all by myself.
“So,” my audience wants to know, “was this a one-time thing?”
I put down my burger.
“I mean, were you doing this all the time?”
I don’t know.
I have told this story to myself. Shared it out loud. It’s familiar. Like one of those photos from childhood; you look at it and think you remember being there, because you’re so used to seeing the photo. But when it comes down to it, you have no way of knowing what is true.
No one has asked me this question before.
Perhaps, in telling the story, I have convinced myself that heart-eating was a regular occurrence. That I stood next to Mom in the kitchen and watched her reach into chickens, remove innards. Boil water.
Then, take the heart and plunge it into boiling water.
Maybe she checked it with a slotted spoon. The one with the blue and white handle.
Dad wasn’t there. Neither was my sister. Mom took the heart out of the water and gave it to me.
(Over and over again). I bit into it.
“I don’t know if it happened more than once,” I said. I like to think that it did.
I finish my burger. And wonder if I am guilty of making stuff up for the sake of a story. To make the story better than it really is. For attention.
Maybe I wish I could stand next to Mom, again, in our burnt umber kitchen, a place where I never had to think: should I eat this? Is it the right thing?
A place where I didn’t have to share her.
Imagine: Mom would hand me something, and it was always just the right thing.