A Story for a Heart

She told me that she had no heart as I sat next to her on a chilly, autumn evening. The last of the light was beginning to fade away, and darkness began to creep over the earth. We sat together on a lonely bench in the park, watching the shadows play across the field of dying grass.

Now, I don’t sit next to strangers, but when she shuffled over, picking her way across the uneven ground at a slow, dirge-like pace, and asked if I minded if she sat, I could hardly say no. I had been sitting all alone and there was more than enough room on the bench.

The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes. They were half-hidden behind thick glasses, and there was a tiredness to them, a kind of exhaustion not usually seen in strangers’ eyes. Usually, such things are hidden away from the world. We weep when no one watches, not for the world to see. But she didn’t seem to care enough to hide anymore.

She was dressed for the weather, wearing a large woolen sweater over a long dark dress. Her stockings were thick and her shoes faded leather. Her hand, spotted and wrinkled, shook as she held her cane. Her other hand clutched a small purse, tucked under her arm.

I slid over to allow her some more room on the small bench and closed my notebook around my pen as she sat. She noticed and asked what I did for a living. I told her that I was a writer and that I was still trying to make a living off of it.

She smiled faintly and then it faded, similar to how the sunlight had dimmed and the darkness grew. It must be difficult, she said. To work so hard and try to make something of yourself. What if no one ever reads the stories you write?

I told her that that was what separated writers from the rest. Being published isn’t what makes one a writer. No. What makes one a writer is having a story and a heart that yearns to tell it. Even if such a story is never seen by anyone else, it still matters.

She said nothing in response to that.

I shifted on the bench and pulled my coat closer around me. I asked her if she minded telling me her story. What had brought her here tonight, why had she decided to sit on a bench next to a total stranger?

She hesitated and her face crumpled with unexpected grief. She told me that she had no heart to tell it as we sat there on that chilly, autumn night. I told her that it was okay, she didn’t have to tell me anything.

Stories are meant to be shared, that may be true. But when those stories are shared, and how, that is entirely up to the one telling them.

We sat in silence for a while after that, as the shadows lengthened. I considered leaving, but something held me there. To this day I don’t know what. Perhaps I instinctively knew that I needed to stay, that she needed someone to sit next to on that lonely bench in the park. And I was that someone. Perhaps it was something else.

I’m not uncomfortable with silence. I don’t see the point of filling the void with empty and meaningless chatter. And she clearly was not inclined to talk about such trivial things as the weather.

Sometimes you don’t need someone to talk to, sometimes you just need someone to sit next to in silence, to know that you’re not alone. This seemed to be one of those times.

I was fine with that too.

But then, the old woman surprised me. She drew in a shallow, shaky breath and spoke in a soft, pain-filled voice. She told me that she had no heart because she had given it away, piece by piece over the years of her life. She had been young once, as all people are, with a heart full of life and full of love.

She remembered playing as a child, the joyous laughter that filled the air as she ran through the sun-kissed meadows. She remembered having a family—brothers and sisters and parents who loved her.

She had given a piece of her heart to each of them. It was theirs, freely given, with nothing expected of them, save that they hold it dear in their hands. She remembered others she gave pieces of her heart to. One she gave to her husband of thirty years, now gone twenty. One she gave to a child who had grown up and moved far away.

Some treated the pieces of her heart carefully and tenderly. Others were harsh and cruel, crushing the fragile, beating piece held in their hands until it faded away. One by one, though, the woman continued to give away the pieces of her heart.

She knew it would hurt her, but she didn’t know what else to do. It was all she could do. And now, after all those years of giving away pieces of her heart, she had none left to give.

What would happen to her now with no pieces of her heart left to give?

She’d seen people who lived without hearts in this world. Such an existence was cold and meaningless. Such people walked through life without truly living. Embittered and cold, they wasted away into nothingness.

She didn’t want that to happen to her, and she was terrified that it already had.

Her shoulders slumped and then shook as silent tears and grief wracked her fragile frame. I saw then how small and frail she really was.

I still sat next to her and reflected on her story, at a loss as to what I should say. Then I cleared my throat and put my arm around her shoulders hesitantly.

She tensed for a moment and tears fell from her face.

I told her that I didn’t rightly know what to say. Then I told her that I would be here, on this lonely park bench every night. I liked to watch the stars come out at night, hesitant at first as if they weren’t quite sure it was time for them to shine yet.

I told her that I often sat alone—she had been the first to ever sit next to me, in fact. I told her that I liked sitting next to her and that if she’d like, she could come and sit next to me again tomorrow night. Then I could tell her one of my stories since she had shared hers with me.

The tears stopped falling. She sniffled once and then smiled. I’d like that, she told me.

Since that chilly night late in autumn-time, all those long years ago, she and I still sit on that bench in the park, which isn’t quite as lonely anymore. We watch as the shadows lengthen and the stars become bold in the night sky. We talk and we tell stories. We laugh and sometimes we cry.

What I’ve learned is this—I gave a piece of my heart to an old, heartless woman, long ago. I didn’t have to give it to her, but I wanted to, and so I did.

She holds a piece of the heart that once was mine tenderly cupped in her hands. It isn’t really mine anymore. It’s become hers. And now, she no longer says that she has no heart.

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