The surgeon cracked open the cocoon that was your ribcage and held your heart in his hands. He cradled it cautiously, cupping his palms as if encircling a fluttering moth. I cannot remember what he told me after—only the sound of his voice breaking when he said your name.
Jennifer Stitt is a PhD candidate in US intellectual history at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Her writing has appeared in Aeon, Aura Literary Arts Magazine, Chronically Lit, Essay Daily, Guernica, On Being, Public Seminar, and other places. She lives in Birmingham, Alabama, and is currently working on a book about the history of solitude.