Walking home. There are drops of blood on the sidewalk. Black-red, the size of quarters, edges serrated, like they were cut out with a fish knife. I follow. They are five, maybe six feet apart. Two steps to form a drop–then drip.
I follow them for three blocks–four. They lead past the car dealership by my condo. Then the wound stops—a gathering of drops. They must think, and think fast. They move on and pull me across the street. I flash to an incident, see a knife, a tear in flesh, a sprint.
I follow still. They pass my door. Leave me to my couch and pillow and book shelf and blue screen and dreams of country. They walk, talking six-foot steps and disappear downtown.
~
When Abraham walked down from that stony hill in Moriah, having escaped indictment, what glory was there left to him? Still, he was blessed, apparently, added to, which his wife found more than amusing. But like drops of blood on a sidewalk, there is far more to the story.
