Blood is poetry and love

It flows through each beat of our hearts

The old woman sat by the window, sunlight dappling her wrinkled skin like a forgotten map. Her name was Anya, and time had etched its stories onto her face. Today, though, a shadow clouded her usually bright eyes. A heaviness in her chest, a familiar tightness, had become a constant companion. It stole the joy from her morning walks and the vibrancy from her laughter.

Across the room, her granddaughter, Elara, sat curled with a book. Elara, with her fiery red hair and eyes the color of twilight, was a whirlwind of energy. Anya watched her with a pang of longing, remembering a time when her own blood had pulsed with the same vibrancy.

“Grandmother,” Elara’s voice broke the silence, “Why do you look so sad today?”

Anya sighed. “There’s a saying, Elara,” she said, her voice raspy with age, “‘The river of life flows within us.'” She tapped her chest. “But sometimes, the river forgets its song.”

Elara tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. “The river of life? What do you mean?”

Anya smiled faintly. “Our blood, Elara. It carries life, strength, and even our memories. When it flows freely, we feel alive. But sometimes, the river gets choked with weeds, or the banks crumble.”

Elara’s eyes widened. “Weeds? In our blood?”

Anya chuckled. “Not exactly weeds, Elara. But things that can slow the flow. Unhealthy foods, too little rest, these can all make the river sluggish.”

Elara looked thoughtful. “So how do we make the river sing again, Grandmother?”

Anya’s eyes twinkled. “We listen to its whispers, Elara. We nourish it with clean water, with fruits and vegetables that burst with sunshine. We give it rest, like a calm stream winding through a meadow.”

The next day, the house was filled with the aroma of freshly cut vegetables. Anya, with Elara by her side, chopped and diced, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic click of knives on cutting boards. They planned walks in the park, long strolls that would get their blood pumping like a joyous brook.

Anya still felt the tightness in her chest sometimes, a reminder of the river’s past struggles. But now, there was a new melody, a whisper of strength that grew stronger with each healthy choice. As she watched Elara skip ahead on their walk, the sunlight painting her hair like a flame, Anya knew that together, they were learning the language of the river within, ensuring it flowed with the song of life for years to come.