Been sewn at the sleeves. Re-patched. Ripped again. Packed in a suitcase. Gone through the spin cycle. Tumbled in the dryer. Taken out with wrinkles and ironed.

Faded knees. Seams coming apart. You can’t take back a beaten heart with those scars. There are slashes forever until it grows harder with each slice. It develops a thick skin cage around that ruddy thing. There are no exchanges. You can’t re-stock a worn heart.

So, threaded and punctured by needlework, it’s kept locked in a drawer, only to be taken out to marvel at the patchwork craftsmanship placed over time. You beat the moths to it. You hold it down with cedar. The cross stitching and small drop of glue adhere damaged tissue marred by the last battle of wear.

Put it back. Let it rest. You’ve worn it out too much. You’ve let it dangle on a wash line like a dummy. You’ve lent it out to someone with heat. It’s too much.

Heart is folded in a mass tangle. Heart has gone fishing. Heart is out for repairs getting tailor made. Heart will only come back if he knocks on your door with the same eyes of your father and the voice that sounds like home.

He’s out there. His heart broken and out for repairs too. But beneath the avenue of veins and ventricle pulsations so vastly damaged by past ache, there is a crack of sunlight, golden, poking through the edges of his wounds.

Just you wait.