I went to the doctor.
They had taken vials of my blood, run tests on them and said,
“You are healthy. We read your blood, and we liked the story that it told.”
Those were her exact words: "She liked the story!"
But what is the story?
I and my fourth-grade best buddy cut our thumbs, pressed them together and became blood brothers. That's one story.
Then I looked into my blood and the DNA it carries,
And it told a story--
Of genes that had traveled from faraway places right into my Texas veins.
There might even be a little Neanderthal DNA in there,
(Which may explain my awkwardness with sophisticated tools.)
I know some people who share most of my blood who love me.
There may be others more distant who have similar blood and hate me,
Ot at least hate my country, my politics, or my religion,
Or just hate me because they are hateful--even with the same blood!
What is the difference between the blood we share and that which we don’t?
Nicking myself shaving, little droplets of blood are my offering to the spirits of grooming.
When I sliced my thumb open cutting leeks and carrots,
None of my blood got into the food,
But a little whispering remnant of its spiritual content
Was that unseen love that made it taste a little better.
Circulating and moving around, from organ to organ,
Head to toe, my blood is like a river,
And you can never step into the same river twice.
I suppose that blood is the same way.
While thicker than water,
It is never exactly the same from one day to the next.
My heart pumps it pretty much out of years of habit,
And sends it to the far reaches of my inner space.
I suppose that there are some tears in my bloodstream,
Some are from what broke my heart (but it is still pumping)
And others from what made me laugh so hard, I cried.
My bloodstream is a place of long journeys in a short space.
And the doctor is right,
My bloodstream is a peaceful stream these days and,
“I love the story that it tells.”
Thanks to my heart, there is more to the story.