Bruise as Change

Lifecycle of a bruise

Author

Alyssa Lo
August 05, 2025

It’s been over two weeks since I donated blood, and either my body misunderstands time, or I misunderstand my body. I noticed the bruises two weekends ago while waiting on the train platform. Yellow, oblong, they run parallel above the injection site. I’m surprised. As they drew my blood, employees of the blood center handed those seated around me ice packs—I thought if they were to appear, the bruises would be immediate. For two days after, it hurt to bend my arm, but the pain subsided. Poking the bruises, I feel nothing. 

When I first noticed them, I’d just missed the Manhattan-bound train, disinclined to ascend and descend two sets of stairs with any haste. I’m on my way to beloveds’ farewell barbeque. Two days prior, we realize it’s exactly two weeks until they leave. Since my friend accepted her new job, I have been anxious about her move—specifically, the ways I can help. My friend, until this realization, hadn’t been worried, but now, only two weeks out, her departure is tangible.

When asked about my weekend, I say that I helped a friend pack. Not untrue, but I spent a decent amount of the barbecue helping to wrangle their dogs and intermittently falling asleep during a game of Mario Party once the party moved indoors—against all odds, I won by a landslide. I stayed the night, crashing on my usual spot on the couch where I slept with her two, ten pound dogs. On Sunday, we are parked, upright, on the couch playing Overcooked, a game we’ve spent countless hours on.

Earlier, I lied about misunderstanding. Truthfully, I don’t know the life cycle of a bruise. With some regularity I find bruises of unknown origin on my body and understand they will go away eventually. This weekend, the upper bruise has shrunk to the size of a pea. The other bruise has grown; or, it appears more prominent with a purple center surrounded by a more sickly yellow. Poking at them now, I feel pain.

Back on the same platform, I wait again. One less transfer and more walking to complete this trip, but I’ve grown familiar with the motions over the years. Again, some packing, more spending time in each others’ presence and not acknowledging the imminence of departure.

The final week, I disrupt the ritual and take a car. Weather, timing, and train delays dissuade me from what would certainly be a foolish endeavor taking public transport. When I enter my friends’ apartment, other beloveds are already there; it’s an evening of 2000s music videos, Polaroid camera flashes, and Alice (1988). After the others leave, I assume my position on the couch to sleep. I wake the morning of their departure and look down at my arm, my bruise gone.

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