Off the corner of 28th and Race, I am on my knees, watching small circles of brilliant red bloom onto a patch of snow. I’m dizzy, afraid I might throw up. I stop moving and watch the crimson drip, drip, drip.
A voice behind me. Are you okay? I see the blue uniform of our mail carrier, a friendly man I’ve chatted with before. Burly, with a beard and ruddy cheeks, he looks especially tall from the ground. He came around the corner just as I fell–my right hand extended to hold sweet Micki’s leash. My left arm now hangs useless. That shoulder is an iron band of electrified pain. I am, more than anything else, amazed.
No, I’m not okay. I’m hurt.
Patrick, the mail carrier, stands in front of me now, his phone in one hand, Micki’s leash in the other. My friend’s sweet husky mix is excited to meet another human. Patrick says, Cuts on the head can really bleed a lot. I’ve shifted onto my behind, and cold slush seeps into my blue corduroys. I pull a kleenex out of my ski jacket pocket and hold it above my left eye. It comes away soaked, carrying the smells of rusted iron and old rivers, of steel mill smoke and sweet tea. Dots the color of my mother’s front yard tulips land on my sleeve.
I just want to go home. I just want to rewind five steps and stop looking up at the bluebird sky, turn back time and put my attention on my feet.
As Patrick waits with me, a stranger calls from across the street. Are you okay? Do you need help?
A few minutes later, Micki and I are in his car. His is the face of compassion. Mid-thirties and clean-shaven, he pales when he glances over at my cut. I direct him to my house. My shoulder is so fucked, I tell him, probably more than once. His name is Mike, and he makes sure my son is home to take me to the hospital. He says he doesn’t care if I get a little blood on his car’s pristine white interior. Patrick will tell me later where Mike lives. I still owe him a thank you note.
The More I Write 