Genesis

blood-1813410_1280

By Alison Woodhouse

When we were ten, I nicked my thumb on a knife. A drop of red decorated the perfectly divided egg we ate for breakfast. You ran cold water and held my hand beneath. It was paper cut pain but I cried.

Tomorrow the surgeon will lay open your breast. Her hand will not shake as she lifts the scalpel, runs it along the ink line.

You took your half of the egg, took my bead of blood and popped it in your mouth. Twins share everything, you said and I smiled, pleased.

3 thoughts on “Genesis

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s