Nonfiction by Angie Sarhan Salvatore
The hearts drifted from the sky that October, cascading much like snowflakes or teardrops do. Though I requested them, their sight still startled me.
I ask for signs the way people order coffee—without thinking, a habit ingrained over time. Is this the right choice? Show me a sign. Do I say yes? Show me a sign.
This was different. You were gone without goodbye. Desperate for a lifeline, instinct kicked in. Show me a heart if you’re with me, I whispered.
Only three hours later, a heart found me. While I thought the heart might come in the form of a bumper sticker or a billboard while I drove to work, that’s not how you showed up. Instead, the sign came while I walked to my office, shoulders slumped, feet slow, head down. My mind caught up to my eyes a few seconds after I took it in. I turned around to look again. I was shocked, but only for a moment.
I knew if you could, you would send me signs.
Years ago, I visited you at your home in London. I could immediately tell that this place was your heart. You could immediately tell I wasn’t visiting, but rather escaping. I was having an upside down moment in life, and hadn’t figured out how to make it right side up again. You offered me a quiet space to settle and sort things out.
When you asked what I wanted to do on my trip, and I replied I wanted to see a psychic, you didn’t seem surprised. Yes, we would sightsee, and yes, I would fall in love with London returning again and again to stay with you, but the first priority was find someone with answers, since I sure as hell didn’t have any.
I wasn’t sure where you stood with psychics or the afterlife, but as my older cousin, you indulged my request, making an appointment at what I would later find out was a world-famous psychic shop. You accompanied me, which made me feel accepted. I opened up. You understood my need to believe in something beyond me. You understood my need to look for signs.
There I stood, eyes fixed on the beige leaf, misshapen and alone—an offering of hope in the darkness. I picked it up from its stem and it was obvious this folded over leaf was a heart. I choked out a breath. I reached for my phone, took a photo, and gently put the leaf back. Thank you, I said to the sky, to you.
For the rest of the day I regretted not keeping it, not saving it somewhere.
Thankfully, this was the first of many signs to come.
Days collapsed into weeks. The leaves found me, over and over again. These unusual gifts became a trail of breadcrumbs propelling me forward each day, giving comfort and reassurance you were with me. Some bore jagged edges. Others looked like a perfectly crafted cutout, but they all had something in common.
Each fallen heart seemed like a symbol of resilience and I saw reflections of me—torn, scattered, and in full surrender. These delicate offerings felt like tiny miracles, nudges from you reassuring me somehow. I took photos and collected them. I told myself I wanted to preserve the memory, but really I wanted to preserve the proof. I saved them like treasures, tucking them away for safekeeping—tokens to be found sometime in the future, when the leaves might stop appearing or when I needed to be reminded of something more.
In those moments, I saw myself as a woman with a beat up heart, desperately hanging onto beat up heart-shaped leaves, but I didn’t care. Though they didn’t take away the sting of your unshakeable loss, they felt like an elixir to my soul, making the grief more manageable, if only for a moment.
I started painting a small, black heart on my fingernail. All of a sudden, we had a thing going. Death didn’t sever our connection. It just took a new shape.
I went back to London three years after your passing. As I packed to leave, I wondered if I would go by your place, if even to pass it from the outside. The idea simultaneously gutted and lifted me, and so, minutes before I left for the airport I tucked something in my purse.
A place can be a container, filled with a mixture of memories, emotions, and past selves. London held so many versions of me. The sad one. The lost one. The hopeful one. The happy one. It had yet to carry this new version, though. The me-without-you one.
Your son was in town and asked me to come by your place. I think he sensed I needed to be there.
It was exactly as I remembered. The staircase that seemed endless. The artwork you painstakingly picked out, hanging in every possible spot. I thought of how happy you would be that we were there together.
When I had a moment alone, I reached into my purse for my hidden treasure. Your son told me that one day he might have to sell this place, my home away from home. It made sense that I did this then.
I hid a tiny heart-shaped amethyst in the unused fireplace. I placed it with a silent prayer, a thank you for all that you gave me: for your grace, generosity and kindness when I was at my lowest; for your friendship and guidance when I was flailing; and for your faith in me. I thanked you for the signs that still arrive when I need them most.
I doubt that amethyst will ever be found. At least, that’s my hope. I want it to remain in the dark depths of this faraway, sacred spot so that a piece of my heart will always be there, nestled in with a piece of yours.
Angie Sarhan Salvatore is a Writing Professor. Her writing has been featured on The Huffington Post, Tiny Buddha, Positively Positive, Mind Body Green, Rebelle Society, Elephant Journal, Having Time, Herself 360 and her blog: universeletters.com. You can find Angie on social media @universeletters.
