For a Moment, I can See the Heart.

| May 5, 2017 | 0 Comments

On a plane headed away from home, I sit high above the space where hopes and worries fog my judgment and clog my ears. I can see clearly how beautiful the world is when you turn off all the sound, when you look to the clearest part of the sky, when you turn off the news that begs for your attention on any reflective surface. For a moment, on an airplane searching for a mystical land called Canada, I can see exactly what we’ve created and all we’ve destroyed as Toronto’s lights shine like earthbound stars in the distance.

When we reach our maximum height in the sky I remember something while the plane’s wings stretch to cover the world I often wish to abandon. A friend once told me we are blood cells pumping through the arteries of cities. From this high up, I believe her because in this moment I can see the heart. It’s beating strong and fierce in my ears from the inside and I see it right in front of me as our plane takes a sharp left towards the airport. It’s keeping us alive. It’s keeping us together. We’re not often thankful for the heart. Maybe it’s because we’re so close we can see all the clots and the cholesterol build up and we never notice that the heart keeps up its thankless beating. Maybe it’s because we’d like the beating to stop. Nonetheless, I watch the city below get closer. It mixes us together, moving us forward without pause, without reason.

Every heart beats differently, I notice. We’re only moments from the airport now. Toronto’s beats like a foreign frog. Thrumming fast as you cut into its chest, it looks just like yours, like mine, but it’s a different beast. There is a cold air in the laboratory while I slice in and take a look, see all the moving parts. The lights, the street cars, they jostle with the boom boom of a seemingly healthy heart. I’ll stitch it back up, and it comes back to life, unstressed by voyeur eyes.

As our plane lands I feel us sinking deeper into a beautiful unknown. The arrhythmic beating in my ears sets off the thrum of this new city, letting me know that I’m far from home.




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Category: Food and Travel, Poetry, Prose and Comedy, Reflections

Monique Atkinson

About the Author ()

Moe is a senior studying Journalism and Sociology. If you're looking closely you can find her rereading anything by Oscar Wilde in a coffee shop, avoiding trains on Commonwealth Ave, or napping... pretty much anywhere.

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