The Beating Heart

Today, I spoke with my daughter about love.

I told her, with a smile that even I didn’t quite recognize:

“After four marriages, maybe I could teach a class on it.”

She laughed.

And I did, too —

but inside, I kept thinking.

Not about the class.

About the chapters.

About the faces that once looked at me with love, or passion, or desire, or longing — or all of it at once —

and expected more of me than I knew how to give.

The truth is, I loved it.

Not perfectly, not wisely,

but wholeheartedly.

With that kind of faith, only someone who has fallen and still dares to try again can have it.

I loved the best way I knew how.

And if there were failures — and of course there were —

they were indeed mine.

Even if they weren’t all mine.

Even if it seems unfair.

Still, it’s more likely that way.

Perhaps owning the fault is the last loving gesture I can offer to those who once gave me a chance to try.

Each of them was a home I moved into with an open heart.

I didn’t leave with furniture

but left marks on the walls.

And I often walked away without knowing how to clean up what I’d spilled.

Even so, not one of these women do I remember without tenderness.

And if there is blame — all of it is mine.

If there were sins, they were mine too.

And if there were mistakes, they would likely come from me.

I don’t know where they are now,

but if they ever hear I’m speaking of them,

I hope they know I’m grateful.

Not everything is easy,

but mainly for what endured.

If I was lucky, it was because they loved me despite myself.

If I was unhappy, it was because I didn’t know how to stay.

If I was unfair, it was because I hadn’t yet learned the size of another person’s soul.

Today, I’m older.

Not wiser — that would be vanity.

But more available to understand.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

And in this quieter season, a new love has arrived.

With fewer promises fewer plans,

but with an unexpected peace.

It is a love that demands nothing,

doesn’t try to fix me,

doesn’t ask to be eternal.

It simply looks at me as if to say:

Stay.

And I stay.

Because to love again, after everything,

isn’t insistence — it’s resurrection.

It’s the most intimate kind of courage.

It’s telling time, “Yes, I’m still here,”

even while carrying in your chest the ruins of old embraces.

It’s reaching out, knowing your hand was once left hanging —

and still offering it with the same tenderness

of someone who has forgiven even what hurt.

This text, more than anyone’s, belongs to life.

And life, for me, only makes sense

because I am loving again.

Without promises.

Without armor.

With a quiet that only comes after the storm,

and with a heart that, though marked,

still chooses to beat beautifully.