The Heart I Left Behind
Every place I have lived in, from Montevideo to Barcelona, has claimed a tiny piece of my heart—not an actual section of that pulsating, pounding organ, but a seemingly insignificant part of my memories.
Currently, the shriveled flowers from our cursed house in Spain fight with the pure white sands of the Catalan shore for dominance of my thoughts. But buried beneath the victorious winners are other remembrances, of meals and visits to friends, of newspapers read in airports and books bought in ephemeral shops, and of the faces I once recognized but have now forgotten.
My heart has been stretched between continents, between lives and loves. It is no wonder that this busy organ broke from overuse.