I remember the day he turned to me and asked how it was possible that the feeling of love could so easily be summed up with a heart, the heart, with a muscular organ that pumps blood, which was more than just another element in the equation of life. To him, blood wasn’t something he associated with feeling good, with feeling alive. No. Instead, it was that thing that was symbolic of pain, of being hurt. And he said that he guessed that part wasn’t completely misleading. Sometimes, he said, he thought he felt love (the good kind) in his stomach, sometimes in his head and on rare occasions even in his toes. Then he told me that to him, love was a total-body experience; it shouldn’t be confined to one organ. And he seemed so content with his conclusion that I didn’t want to tell him it was because of “that thing” that pumps through that “one organ” that he could feel that kind of love in all those kinds of places.
And, in case you missed it, here's the teeny tale from last February: conversation hearts.