We talk about being happy, about being loved, about being in love, about being "fully alive" because we currently are none of those things. When we are, we can't explain; words become worthless next to the experience.
To remember your body, to remember your blood, to partake of both with a sinner's mind is to rewind and relive what I once fiercely protected. I protected you within the cage of my chest. You knocked on my ribs, but you can't really expect me to welcome in unexpected visitors.
So maybe I don't have the best manners. So maybe I still say out loud at the table that the sundaes are crying caramel tears. At least I think it's funny. Maybe I crossed the line when I commented that it had strawberry syrup stigmata? You can't laugh with your mouth full because you might choke.
Being happily lovely happy and loved eludes me. You'll miss the point if you think I am merely miserable. In between the web of words lies a life about to be resurrected. Does it have eight legs or nine lives? I can't remember. There's something pleasant about the number seven, but which five apostles do I abandon in order to please? Or maybe I'm thinking of sins, not saints. The numbers float around like sprinkles in the soupy mess my sundae has become.
To be fully alive requires a death of sorts first. One doesn't seem to exist without the other.
Your blood is a salvation, a sacrament. Your sacredness lies in what has yet to be risen inside my ribs.