The transfusion

The scarlet carpet where he lay was soft, and he closed his eyes in order to see.

Blood began to flow, pouring down from above, from an unseen place. A rejuvenating cascade, fresh and cerise.

A voice spoke, not an audible one but a felt voice, quite clear: Time to grow up, it said.

He began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Drenched in blood.

Someone told him later of the laughter because he did not hear it. He only felt the feeling. It was sensational.

Things changed after that, after the transfusion a decade back on a summer hillside of pine trees descending to a mirror lake where a lone fisherman enjoyed the Florida afternoon in a rowboat.

On the floating, shapeless oceans,
I did all my best to smile
till your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving into your eyes.

And you sang, “Sail to me. Sail to me.
Let me enfold you.” *

* Song to the Siren by the Cocteau Twins.

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