Vulnerable, shirtless, lying still with wires protruding from various electrical contact points on my chest and a hand-held tube pressed gently into my side, I am transfixed by the screen just above eye level and slightly to my left.
The beating – the swooshing – of my heart sounds automated and mechanical as it draws blood into one chamber before pumping it out another.
It’s all quite mesmerizing, this echocardiogram machine.
And all quite visible – in rapid succession on that computer screen – are the blacks, the grays, the greens, the blues, and the reds that will ultimately trace out the full dimensions of my health.
One valve, doing yeoman’s work, is held in freeze frame for a moment while a tiny space is measured and recorded for later review.
Such scientific insight is now granted into the human heart. An insight unknown not so many generations ago when only sound could be heard and the physical mechanics simply guessed at.
But the picture and sound, together, reveal some coordinated hand at work. The timing, the movement, the enduring efficiency seem to speak of some ancient timekeeper overseeing every measure of my being.
At least for now. At least for me.
Is it any wonder that the heart is so often the poet’s default space from which to speak of life, and of love, and of everything in between?
A place to speak of those things that forever pursue us?
Even death itself.
Copyright (TZampino) 2020
Image Credit: Pixabay
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