NORTHEAST OHIO SPOTLIGHT

The Shape of a Heart

Nonfiction by ​​Melissa Ballard

For my birthday, a friend gave me a small piece of pottery in the shape of two cupped hands. The wrists are a cluster of leaves and berries. It is covered in a cream-colored matte glaze.
 
A few years ago, another friend gave me a delicate rosary, silver with light blue beads. I am not Catholic, so I studied it, puzzled. She closed my hand around it and said, “I just thought you needed to have this.”
 
I hold the rosary when I meditate, possibly to honor my Catholic ancestors, hoping it isn’t some sort of sin. When I’m finished, I place it in the clay hands, which rest on a narrow table in front of the window in my home office. They are watched over by a figurine of Kwan Yin, sometimes called the female Buddha, given to me by a student.
 
 
My daughter was an art major in college. For the centerpiece of her senior show, she interviewed people about their most valued possession, and then took photographs of them holding these unexpected objects: a small book, a mini candy bar wrapper, a pen. The images were powerful, each person’s body cropped to focus on their cupped hands, holding a single object close to their heart.
 
 
A hummingbird hovers around our backyard feeder, beating his wings so quickly he is almost a blur, before swooping down to sip. In her essay, “Mute Dancers,” Diane Ackerman wrote that most hummingbirds die at night, when their hearts, which have beaten with relentless rapidity during the daylight hours, must slow down. Sometimes they slow down too much.
 
 
When too many life events occurred in rapid succession, my always-latent anxiety bloomed lavishly. I woke at 3:30 a.m. most days, my heart feeling like it was being pinched around the edges, crimped like a piecrust, ballooning in the middle. Eventually, I found the right combination of medication and meditation. Now, when I wake early with the gentler version of my heart under attack, I am able to relax into it. Soon, my heart slows down, but not too much. 
 
 
On the evening of the day my mother was diagnosed with a large, inoperable mass in her colon, she sat up in her hospital bed, discussing sports with my husband. She savored a bowl of hot tomato soup, a welcome respite from the cold liquids she’d had to drink for various tests. When she had finished the last spoonful, she leaned against her pillows, said, “Call the nurse,” and, after a brief convulsion, was gone. It was as though her eighty-five-year-old-heart, knowing what the future held, simply exploded, like an heirloom crystal wine goblet slipping out of someone’s hand and shattering on a marble floor.
 
 
We have so many expectations for our hearts. They provide the constant and elegant pumping that keeps us alive. We claim them as the seat of our deepest emotions: joy, grief, love. For the latter, we celebrate a February holiday complete with heart-shaped jewelry and boxes of chocolates, greeting cards that feature hearts, and even tiny messages stamped on heart-shaped sugar candies. In all commercial endeavors, the human heart is neatened. Instead of the inverted, slightly tilted cone shape found in anatomy texts, the hearts we buy feature two smoothly rounded arcs at the top, tapering to a neat point at the bottom.
 
 
The symbolism of cupped hands suggests fragility and delicacy, but also security. They are the true shape of the human heart.
 
 
It is July-in-Ohio-humid. I am running after Grandpa’s beagle, who once again pulled away from me and is headed for the road, to chase cars. I step on his leash, gather him up, and hand him back to Grandpa. I am dizzy with the heat.
 
In the house, there is no air-conditioning, there are no fans. A slight breeze runs through the kitchen, from front door to back. I am still short enough to need a stool to reach Grandma’s kitchen sink. I climb up, wash my hands with the bar of Ivory soap, rinse them. I splash my face.
 
Grandma is stirring eggs into flour with a fork. She is making her thick, soft noodles. She looks up and says, as she always does, “That’s good well water, sweetie. Don’t spoil it with a glass.”
 
I drink the cold, sweet liquid from my cupped hands.

Melissa Ballard 

Melissa Ballard was born in Tuscarawas County. She grew up in Lakewood, Ohio, then moved as far west as Toledo and as far east as Cleveland Heights. Oberlin has been her home for the last thirty years. Melissa has written essays for Belt Magazine, Brevity, Under the Sun and other publications.