Maybe three years ago, one of my friends, I can't remember who, exactly, gave me a pretty little red and blue clay heart. I put the heart in my car, where I felt happy every time I saw it. Several months later, on a return trip back to my hometown, I was running errands with my dad and sister - we took two cars because we had to drop one off - and my dad sat in the front seat. Somehow, my little heart fell on the ground without my noticing.
I did notice, however, that my dad was mushing together something in his hands as he sat in the front seat. I asked him what he was doing, and he showed me a purple clump, told me I needed to clean out my car.
Enraged, I swerved to the shoulder, grabbed my deformed heart from my father's calloused hands, and pushed him out of the car door, never to see him again. Just kidding. But I did ask if he LOOKED at the heart before he went all Play-Doh Destruction Force on it (he said no).
Sheepishly, he tried to mold my once-perfect heart into its former glory. He stuck it on my dashboard, where, after harsh frozen winters and the heat of summer, it is now permanently melded.
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