Long ago Peter gave me a gold heart on a chain from Tiffany’s. I rarely took it off.
Last Saturday, while standing at the kitchen sink, I felt the chain hanging open around my neck. The heart was gone.
I hadn’t left the apartment that morning except to go to the trash chute, and I had the feeling that while bending over to pick up the trash bag from the kitchen floor, the heart had slipped into it and was now in the huge iron trash container in the basement of our building.
A building staff member opened the trash container for me, and I climbed on a ladder to see if I could see the plastic bag I had recently dropped down the chute. Alas, even though I pushed big bags aside with a long pole, I couldn’t find the one I had dropped. The symbolism of losing my heart was obvious.
Two days later, Peter passed away. I didn’t want the heart replaced. It was gone for a reason.
(P.S. Our housekeeper found the heart under a chair on Wednesday.)