The Guardian, Centurion, the Gestapo of my heart. She inspects all, she watches all, and rarely allows anyone to tread across the front lawn of my Heart’s Home. Her ego is slightly bruised because you snuck in when she was digging thru her purse for that ever elusive cigarette lighter. My Heart sits in her lovely home waiting, knowing there is someone out there capable of touching her soul. Someone not afraid to dive into her world head first, undeterred, un-intimidated. She hides scars, defects, the ugly parts, in a closet at the back of the laundry room. That dark cold room where you usually keep ancient linens and last year’s Christmas napkins. The people who come in and out of this home are sorely disappointed when they find this room, as though it were placed there conspiratorially and deceptively by The Gestapo of My Heart. It is always there, you pass it every time you go into the Laundry Room, which is often in a home like this one. Why would it be necessary to point out t