It’s somewhere in New York City, where you took your life when you ran from me. Maybe Central Park where the leaves crunch under your Keds in the Fall, or Brooklyn, near the bridge before it turns to dusk and the corners are dark in a different kind of way, like South Chicago.
The chalk in the photo is drawn in all kinds of colors, big block letters and a heart in place of the word love. It says Jesus heart you. And there’s you, right next to the word you. Jesus heart Brad is what I think when I look, linger. When I linger and stall with an image from season ago. When I look at it, I think, yes. Jesus does heart Brad. I heart Brad. This whole mess is just a matter of Brad hearting back. Brad hearts me, but he doesn’t heart Jesus and the intersection of Brad unhearting Jesus and hearting me is the heart of the problem. It always has been.
I await the day when I can look at some anonymous little girl’s chalk masterpiece and the man I’ve fallen in love with who kneels ironically, poetically beside and fall asleep in confidence that all hearts are clear. Today, all hearts are not clear.