If you ever have a broken heart
be sure to visit Mr. Fix-It.
He's made a living of mending such things;
running a well-known business
tailored to his ever-growing clientele.
Such visits are never lovely or expected,
but his clients are glad for his company
and experience in such things.
They flock to his storefront,
framed in dark wood,
which was like a permanent cloud
pierced by a large open window
that let in buckets of sun--
reminding his clients that
hope could always be found
even when their faith is gone.
Gently he'd take the heart,
in all its broken pieces,
and place it gingerly in a crystal bowl.
He'd reply, "Ah yes, I can help,"
as he looks down over the basin,
through his dark-framed glasses
with a concerned and all-knowing gaze.
Sadly, broken hearts are his business.
As the customer wrings their hands
and paces to and fro, worrying
and fretting; a weeping of his soul,
Mr. Fix-It goes straight to work.
Turning his back, he hunches over his work bench
on a small stout wooden stool,
under a bright lamp that leans over his shoulder,
like a master supervising his apprentice.
Silently, with measured movements,
he goes about his work. His hands
move like a dance. His mending tools
stand at the ready, like an army
awaiting commands. With glue and tape,
Mr. Fix-It rearranges the broken pieces
of the sufferer's heart. Never again
would it look the same.
Sweat collects on the brows of both men
as one awaits in anguish,
and the other mends the fragile pieces
that seem to crumble
with the slightest touch.
The clock on the wall ticks
as if the pendulum was
pacing in impatience.
As the sun casts long shadows
across the floorboards of the storefront,
the client suddenly ceases his weeping.
Warmth comforts his cold limbs and
feeling rushes inside of his shell.
And there is Mr. Fix-It, bathed in the setting sun,
as the tortured client lifts his chin: a whisper of hope.
Mr. Fix-It stands, cradling the mended
heart in his arms like a newborn.
"It is done," he says and presents to the anguished man.
"It's not the same," says the client, his lips faulted
but his eyes spark with life once more.
"No," says Mr. Fix-It, shaking his head.
He takes a deep breath--news he never liked to give--
"And it never will be again."
Before the client gets dismayed,
Mr. Fix-It reassures him, "It is the same,
just rearranged. It is stronger now,
moreso than before. But it is also fragile
before it gets strong. That's how these things go."
Slowly, the client nods and takes his heart
tenderly into his own hands, he cradles it
and rocks back and forth; second chances born again
"Can you make it unbreakable?" asks the man.
"Cast it in iron or gold?" His eyes look hopeful
as he looks up from his patched-up bundle.
Mr. Fix-It frowns--a question heard too often.
He shakes his head and wisps of gray hair
agree with his movement. "No," he whispers.
"Only you can do that. Through forgiveness
and taking chances. Surviving in the darkness."
A bottom lip quivers as the client nods.
With a gentle touch to the sensitive heart,
the man moves to leave,
"We'll be strong again," he whispers,
gingerly tucking away his heart,
as he walks into the dusk-covered streets.
"In time we'll love again," he says before
slipping into a lullaby and disappearing into a new life.
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