for V., because it’s all true… always has been

My head hitting another stair, I watch my blood flying and spattering the wall almost gracefully. I could reach for the railing. Of course I could. It’s right there. Yet I think, another one, just one more. And as my cheek connects with the concrete I wonder why I can’t hear anything. Then one ear pops and a gush of blood erupts from it, temporarily spurting but quickly receding and joining the small river in my neck, fed by my nose and one eye that quit after the first flight of stairs. My hand is going up. A spectator would think “at last, she’s reaching for the railing!” but he should know different. I can see the next stair coming and my elbow looks  like it will be doing the landing this time. But not before I have time put my fingers on my skull where it’s soft now. Where it’s warm. The light dims. I understand that it had to be this way. I can only hope they have my blood type at the hospital.

—o0O0o—

I have no reason no why no when. There is always if, but we all know what this one amounts to.

The Words are still alive. Busy living, granted. Growing, spreading, sowing. A harvest in time.

I remember when they meant more than my breath. When they were my breath. I try not to forget.

Sentences the yarn that wove itself into the only blanket I would let warm me.

I do feel cold sometimes. Then I reap. And it all comes together.

I’ve found things that heal. Other things. But the generosity of the Words have no equal.