prose poesie

“You don’t realize that you’re a big old bag of blood until you actually burst,” is not the start of a story I wanted to hear out, yet it was precisely this tale with which she introduced herself to me. “My grandfather was quite drunk and took me to the top of the Sears Tower in Chicago,” she continued. I tuned out. She went on, relating in comic detail how the old man first talked his way into complete access to the building, then fell to his death. She smiled when she remembered his face falling away and though she heard not a word was convinced the gentleman realized just before his death that he was nothing more than a bag of blood hurtling to the concrete below. She was certain that was the man’s last thought. “Splat,” she would finish the story, clapping one hand down on her upturned palm for emphasis.

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