Blood

As the needle approaches his old and dark skin of the antecubital fossa, I reiterate in my mind the steps of drawing blood.
The large and scary looking needle has an incredibly sharp point slanting down to create a bevel separated by a wide hole that will soon have fresh, warm blood running through it.
I have to consciously focus on breathing and relaxing my shoulders- maneuvers that aren't as inherent under pressure.
I quickly poke the nice gentleman at a 30 degree angle and progress the needle into the large, plump vein at 10 degrees.
He flinches a small flinch and closes his eyes- not tightly, but just enough so that the entire eye is covered.
I sit back and smile at the success of blood flashing through the syringe on the first try- I feel accomplished in such a simple task, but one that if done more than once can cause undue pain.
He relaxes on the gurney with his arm propped above a clean white pillow like all the other pillows in the clinic.
I make sure to hold the needle still between two tightly clenched fingers, as I roll the clamp to allow blood to enter the vacuum bottle.
The large, glass container is quickly contaminated as droplets of blood hastily flow through a couple of feet of tubing and down to the bottom.
I ask if he's alright and joke about feeling like a vampire.
My heart slows, my respirations return to normal, and my muscles relax- even though I didn't realize they were tense.
We talk for nearly 20 minutes as I collect his warm and slightly thick blood.
I think about it- how odd it is. How I can sit her on my steel stool and with only a few instruments drain the blood from a living arm.
A piece of him that was once rushing through arteries, becoming intertwined in muscle fibers, and trickling through renal capillaries to be filtered, is now captive in my large jar... never to return to its tasks, never to deliver the nutrients that it still hold among its red blood cells and other components.
The level slowly but surely rises.