Hearts

        The spring I turned 9 was the same spring I discovered bleeding hearts.  I remember

the moment well.

  I can still smell it.  Lying in the grassy slope by a rock garden in our new backyard, I was captivated by the little pink and white hearts that dangled from the stems of a mysterious plant.  The hearts swung a little in the breeze.

The intricate perfection of this flower's form filled me with awe.  

I wished I knew the name of this flower.  In fact,  I remember that moment of regretting my misfortune in not being born as the kind of person who knew the names of flowers, of sea shells, and of night time constellations.

Eight years later, when I was almost twice as old, I met this guy.  He knew the names of things.  It wasn't so much a case of being a certain type of person, he explained to me.  He just looked this stuff up in books.

What a talent.  I wanted in.  I married the guy.

All this time and no regrets.  Now I can recognize bleeding hearts and dahlias, scallops and cowry, Orion and Cassiopeia.   And more.