HeartLines

My mother is a Pharmaceutical representative. She sells all kinds of medications. Some for allergies. Some pain killers, those ones could make your head spin. She is your average tooth fairy. She drops in when you need her. She takes your boo boo's and bandages them. She drops a reward on your pillow. She wears purple wings with fine edges. They are symmetrical.

Don’t forget to read the backside of the bottle. It might tell you that these pills make your mouth itchy and dry. Some tickle the back of your throat. Some grow lumps where the sun does not shine. Some spell out the word “death.” But the letters are typed in a faded print. Her magic lies in the underestimated label.

But she carries the treatments on her restless back. To reach you.

Like the medication labels, she teaches me about the side effects of love.

My heart feels like my mother. It beats when she instills her medical background within me. She nags me to stay hydrated. I often think of water. Drink a lot of water, she'll tell me. It steadies your body temperature. It helps your food go down the right track. It hydrates you. It allows your muscles to function. It’s necessary to swallow those pills.

What she won’t tell me is that water can drown your kidneys. It floods the salt in your blood. Sometimes when you chug a cold bottle of it, your body doesn’t even retain its assumed lifeline. The speed causes your body to believe that the water is unnecessary. It expels the water from your begging muscles. She hides the ramifications from me. She shields me from the pain.

She warned me about my first love. “That one’s a drug. It’s the kind of love that looks like a freckled face. The infatuation will mold to your skin.” She was right. Now his shadow grips onto my tainted white dress. She tried to protect me from the kind of love that would hurt me, ensuring that her love would never bite.

She told me that love can feel like a song that I haven’t heard in awhile. Maybe I haven’t played it because it reminds me of the time that the patient monitor screamed when his vital signs plummeted. She held my pinky as we walked out of the hospital with our heads pointed down. She promised that with love, comes loss. She reminds me that I can still appreciate the beat of the song.

She even gives love the benefit of the doubt. She says that my heart can be as beautiful as a detour. I’m late for class because the avenue is under construction. I turn left to retrace my designated path. I slam my hands onto the wheel of my Nissan Altima and fling the day old coffee cup that has caused my car to smell sour. After my tantrum, I turn up the radio. My windshield beholds a field that I never noticed. The playground has a bright yellow slide. A mom waits for her toddler at the bottom. I roll my window down. The air informs me that spring is coming.

She informs me that my heart can feel sensitive, like my pale blue eyes. The sun shines down on my fair skin. It fills the void that the clouds never could. I look in its direction only to feel it sizzle my pupils.

She compares love to the taste of pineapples. They are always sweet and juicy. Their vibrant yellow complexion draws me closer to them. Reggae tunes echo in my ear drums when the fruit touches my lips. I dance alongside my tastebuds. If you eat a bunch of those smooth criminals, they sting the speckles on your tongue. The irritated glands scratch the roof of your mouth. I bleed sometimes. She enlightened me that something sweet can turn sour.

She even embraces me during the worst heartaches. It pained me to hear that he didn’t love me. I knew that was a lie. I laid on the crusted carpet, with my begging palms pointed toward him. Eventually my hands rose above my head. I surrendered to the love that continued to puncture me. She placed a bandaid over each wound.

She gifted the younger me, a Minnie Mouse stuffed animal. I matched her in a pink ruffled top. Her cotton muffs slipped from my fingertips. She fell onto the mulch covered grass. Her pink ruffled top held these stains. The stains of worry that we might not always be together. Her clothes will not always match mine. But I grabbed her back from the mulch that ripped her from me. Only to have that love fade. I’m too old for a stuffed animal now. She taught me that love comes with growing pains.

After all the bleeding and aching, I crave the feeling. I see the ache when I look at her curled hair that stays intact while it rains. The wet ringlets curl up toward her jaw and stay stationary in the wind. Somehow her bangs are straight. They stretch down to point to her beating heart.

I can feel the beating with every breath I take. It slams against my chest.