I make the appointment. Too much time has passed since the last time.

My muscles cry out for relief–pent up and working overtime clicking away.

The clock ticks away among all the other background noise until the appointment arrives. I make sure no conflicts concur on my calendar. Phone goes on DND as I walk into his place.

When I arrive, he greets me with a smile. He knows me. He knows my body with every intricate sinew and fiber. He knows what I need without me telling him. But he still asks anyway. I tell him.

As I undress, I allow my mind to unhinge from all responsibilities and regrets. I breathe in the eucalyptus. I listen to the sound of a stream. My eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I lay down.

No words pass between us once he starts his magic. He knows his job well. It hurts. A millisecond stretches out in my mind and I want to yell, “Stop! Nevermind!” But I remember what I came for…

To be refined in the refiner’s fire. He applies pressure to it–that fickle and deceiving muscle. He digs deep and starts pushing out all the junk in there. I flinch and squirm. I forgot about that thing. And that. And that. So much garbage lodged in my heart.

He stays on a spot and keeps running back and forth. Just when I don’t think I can take anymore, he moves on to another spot in my heart. He uses oil as he works–to anoint and heal. Calm and caring, he asks me questions and listens. He even makes jokes to help me through the healing session. I cry and laugh simultaneously.

Our time ends quicker than I want. The hour disappears and he has other heart massages to do. He shows me how to stretch myself and move forward to prevent the sludge from coming back. He gives me living water to drink. “Stay hydrated,” he says.

I will try.

EKG