In my small crowded heart

The superintendent of my heart is miserly and cowardly, but could be forgiven for those faults because it is an unenviable job to defend the tiny space of my most vulnerable part. The superintendent turns people away, rarely laughs, and is always worried about some careless buffoon elbowing through the already rickety and structurally challenged confines. Visitors are no problem since they come and go, but those who made a promise with me will want to stay, or at least tuck a part of themselves in a nook somewhere until they return. That way, we might recognise each other again. Already, I’ve shed enough tears, and the superintendent must ration out how much I can afford to lease the space before the shelf splinters under the weight of grief and waiting. 

“Are you here to stay,” the superintendent asks through the ungenerous crack of the door, “or are you going to leave her with just the memories that ache in your absence?” 

“I can’t stay for long, but I promise this is a friendship full of laughter.” Or, “I promise to say my proper goodbyes and make the phone calls!” The bargaining starts, and the superintendent must guard against the widening crack as more people make a space in my heart to leave little trinkets, and the space overflows with a bit of everyone that I have subconsciously hoarded. 

“This isn’t farewell, but a see you again!” It’s an old excuse, but it is classic for a reason. The superintendent paused, and begrudgingly lets another one in.

And the superintendent must facilitate the exit as well. Sometimes, people pack themselves out of my life, but other times, when the time is up people get up to leave like tipsy customers stumbling out of the block. Careless, tearful, and memorable. These departures inflict wounds. After, the superintendent cleans up alone, grumbling, “Why would you let them in and hang onto their stupid stuff? Throw them away, this is the last time you will see this version of them, and the last time they will meet this version of you. Nothing will be the same again, and that is if you do ever meet.”

For all this superficial disapproval, I wish the superintendent was less soft-hearted, because new friends keep getting let in. They witnessed how I changed and learned how I laughed. Sometimes, they get let in even when they’re bad negotiators, and I wonder if the superintendent is getting too sentimental for the job. 

“How long would you be here for?”

“Just a year or so, but it will be important to her.”

“… Will you promise that when you come back again you will visit?”

“I will try.”

“And will you promise to stay well, and remain unmarked by the relentless tide of time?”

“I will have to grow up too.”

“But will you make sure you only come back with smile lines and proof of a good happy life? That’s all she asks of you.”

“No one grows up without a little scarring.”

“But it will break her heart to see you otherwise.”

“Isn’t that your job to protect her heart?”

The poor superintendent could barely keep the rattling treasure chest together, and falls silent at this accusation. And later, the superintendent, on knees and hands, scrubs the pain away alone. I have been greedy, and asked for everything to be kept just the way it was, but I cannot bear to look at the lingering memories. The superintendent knows this, and when I am away discreetly keeps things organised so that there’s space to breathe again. The best time to work is while on a long flight home, where the dark and engine noise masks the sound of the tiny space cracking.

How many heartbreaks to endure? That is not clear. But the superintendency is a lifelong job, and it seems that it is also my lifelong plan to keep making friends and allowing them to trespass into my heart. 

Perhaps decades later when you find me again, the superintendent might take a little longer, but will eventually come forward with the memory you have left for safekeeping. We might sit at a dinner table and reminisce, and the superintendent might watch from afar the glow I bask in, and believe temporarily, that the job might be worthwhile.