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Giving Blood

June 15, 2011

The past is a big, fleshy heart and it pumps the memories to the present.

I donated memories today. The lady, she stabbed my finger with a little needle and siphoned my life into a tiny plastic tube. This she placed in a centrifuge and it whirred around until my memories bled memories of their own—which were purer and more refined (a translucent amber shade).

A piece of metal straw sliced into a fat vein at the crook of my arm and those memories did not wait but flowed into a plastic bag. I watched them go and I wanted to grab the bag and hold it and feel it fill up—and if the nurse asked me why I would tell him because it is hot and because it is my blood. But I couldn’t retrieve the bag of blood and even if I could have I wouldn’t have, because once that blood—those memories—left me, they were still me, but they were not mine. It’s true. Because bleeding isn’t like giving money or pogs or favors. It’s bleeding, and that can make a person die.

Your memories bleed memories and if you don’t believe me, think of your favorite memories and then go to the place where the memories were conceived, and walk through them all and you will find that those memories bled out like a watercolor painting in the rain. And my memories are bleeding all over the map these days, and it’s a far, far better painting they make now, than they’ve ever made before.

 

© Trent R. Leinenbach, Ashen Apples, 2011

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One Comment leave one →
  1. June 15, 2011 6:49 pm

    This is FANtastic. What an awesome perspective about bleeding memories. Trent, you should write collections of short stories and essays with a novel in the back. I think you could rock all three. (:

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