Like a Handprint On My Heart

At thirty degrees, it feels so nice outside. Almost balmy. The cold doesn't scape at exposed extremities immediately, and my coat is completely adequate as protection from the wind.

Laura and I went to take the last final. Other Laura joined us, and then Cornell did as well, as the lecture hall had pretty well filled up. They were both sick and making rhino-esque noises, but it's that time of year. And with that final, an end was come to the Study Abroad FIG at the University of Missouri.

But I was also thinking about Lucia. She's on her way to Chile now for the holidays. I thought about her and on my walk home alone, I didn't bother to put on my gloves, so the wind started biting at them. I pulled out the scarf Lucia made me. It still smells a little bit like her.

I thought of the wall that stands even now in the high school cafeteria, where we all made our hand prints with silver or blue paint. Brooke painted our hands, and Stephanie and Lucia and I went to make our marks side by side, and not far away from Rachel, Lisa, Wendy, Gwen, Sara, or the others. It's customary to have a quote, and our year's quote was this:

"You'll be with me, like a handprint on my heart."

It's something of a miracle that brings two people together at all, much less with enough force that they have the chance to become friends. And so, I'm grateful that an East Coast free spirit with a poet inside of her and a deep heart from South America were both brought to me by fate. I'm grateful.

Liisa, too, spoke of this coincidence. She didn't know, she said, whether I believed in such things as coincidences, but she was grateful for what brought us together, what prompted her, three years ago, to send a message to an elindomiel on penpal.net. She didn't know whether I believed in coincidence, and I smiled at the way the ordinary order of things was reversed. I don't myself know whether I believe in fate or in coincidence. Both seem equally impossible, and equally amazing.

I buried my face in soft Chilean wool and closed my eyes. Words came unbidden to my mind from an old poem I read once. I think of Stephanie and Lucia and Liisa and Rachel and all the others. This poem, this prayer, is a promise and a burial.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)"

- E. E. Cummings