The only truths I ever told were with my body, Mack. Every time I laid us down. The sincerity of the body has been much maligned by the idea that words are more honest than a beating heart. This is what I have learned since then, that my body knew us better. Every confession it ever made, those revelations in your arms, they were the only truths of our seven years, the gospel that I now believe.
It tried to tell us, time and again. Honesty traded from limb to limb, prayers written out across the body. And I have to believe that this is what lasts. That truth and faith are ultimately the same. That while we are all telling our little stories, trying to make our characters fit, our bodies remember a different truth. A leap of faith made when hands reach across the widest of chasms. And how sometimes, Mack, we nearly make it.
Beneath the thrum of expectation, the beating heart wins in the end. Because at the end of the day it is love that makes us, not the other way round. Messy, inconvenient, thoughtless love. No matter how hard we resist, it is the force that shapes our lives. The heart has always had other plans.
We can dress up in someone else’s clothes, we can recite lines fashioned from other mouths, and decorate our promise with beads and silk, but these offerings only last until the candles burn down. Love is what the body remembers.
The heart is a mosaic, Mack – full of cracks and flaws. Every splinter of glass we lay down simply adds to the composition of our love. Piece after jagged piece reveals the breaks and fractures the heart can endure. It is the pattern we make of this life. The story our body remembers. Seen clearly from a distance, Mack. And so very beautiful up close.
I pour another red and reach for a second glass. Lucy will soon be here with cake.
(The end of Maggie’s story. Over to Lucy now …)