I listened to the soft thumps inside his chest. I didn’t mean to — I just noticed them. We lay on a bed, me nestled into his side and my arms draped over his torso. The solemn flams of his heart drummed the anthem of young love into my temples. Moving my ear just inches away, the room fell silent. Closer, I heard his life song once again. It was weird reducing someone I cared so much about to the powering of an organ. He was my world, yet I hadn’t heard the mechanics that kept him alive until that moment. He was suddenly fragile, too dependent on this unpredictable powerhouse that could give out at any moment. Hearing those solid taps inside his body for the first time was reassuring and terrifying at the same time. He was here and he was mine, but I’d soon learn the feeling was fleeting. The heartbeats that I ignored every day before that would eventually become something I’d miss.
I can’t recall the melody anymore, but at the time, it was the sweetest song I knew.
The other day, I thought about all the heartbeats I had ever heard in my life, which were not many: my mother’s, maybe my sister’s, and those of scattered ex-lovers. The experiences were similar to holding a seashell to your ear — it could take you somewhere else as long as you were willing to listen.
I never realized how intimate it was to know someone’s heartbeat. Not only does it transcend a physical barrier, it also surpasses an emotional threshold that often binds us to a menu of acceptable romantic or platonic interactions. Hearing someone’s heartbeat is rarely approached as a request, so there’s something to be said about a relationship where the gesture manifests naturally.
Even after 16 years of companionship, I still don’t know what my best friend’s heartbeat sounds like. I pondered this peculiar hole in our friendship when he emailed me a week ago before his flight to Thailand, where he is currently doing volunteer work. I skimmed his email about pre-travel jitters and long-flight insomnia, but kept dwelling on the fact that I had never heard his heartbeat before. We knew everything else about each other, so why was this the exception? And why did the absence of such a non-descript act bother me? There is nothing intrinsically valuable about hearing the rhythm inside someone’s chest. Unlike a voice, it doesn’t distinguish someone’s presence. Unlike a personality, it doesn’t demonstrate qualities that separate a keeper from the crowd. So why was I obsessing over a silly action that said nothing about the depth of our friendship?
His heartbeat was nothing more than a cadence that marked his existence — and that’s exactly why I wanted to hear it. My best friend had been a constant in my life for 16 years, but the past has a cruel disconnect from the future. What if I never had another chance to hear to his heartbeat? I was struck by the fear of taking it for granted, of taking him for granted.
Heartbeats are a tangible reminder of the dear company we have in life. In a morbid light, they are the music that keeps death at bay, but heartbeats represent much more in our daily lives. They are the humble tempo of our social lives that are often drowned out by our busy schedules. We’ll have time to Skype next week when finals are over, we’ll hang out later when I don’t have so much work. Heartbeats are patient in this way, but just because it’s easy to put our relationships on hold doesn’t mean we should. Oftentimes, the basic reminder of existence is the most important reminder we need.
It may seem trivial now, but what happens to the value of a heartbeat when you realize it’s no longer accessible? The hearts that beat today are not guaranteed a tomorrow, so take a moment to appreciate the orchestra around you.
When my best friend comes home, I will ask to hear to his heartbeat. We will laugh, bashful and embarrassed by the strange request, but his heart will beat and I will listen. And in the seconds I truly hear my best friend for the first time, I will know a new melody.