marrow

I am in the midst of buying the final provisions for what my loved ones call the trip of a crazy woman.
Maybe I am crazy- I mean, probably.
I woke up this morning with what I could only describe as an innate sense of dread, like waking up in the woods alone after being startled by a cracking sound in the distance. But crazy as it sounds, the feeling was not jarring, it was normalcy for me. Even in my own bed. So I think out in the woods, listening to the crackling of unseen life may be where I belong.
The map of America that I purchased is fraught with highways, byways, parkways, detours, mini roads, mini highways-they make the map look like a wild boar who is a heroin addict. I guess I must be the drug.
I am worried about danger. I am worried about traveling those veins and running into the big bad wolf. But I worry about never doing this more.
I think if I needed to I could hurt someone who wanted to hurt me. If I really had to buck up and fight, I could do it. Even though as of late, my bones don't seem to agree with me.
I have been working out before the trip to get stronger and I seem to just get more sore. My body is protesting 5 mile runs and squat reps. My arthritis has become a conscientious objector to push ups. Bread has brainwashed my stomach. It didn't used to be this way. I used to be the strongest woman in the world. My mind has fooled myself into still thinking that. But now my body is disagreeing.
I don't mind getting old. But I do mind aging.
Aged. Sickly, brittle. With bones like paper. soft almost diaphanous skin that sits upon them, decorated in liver spots, like doilies. Hiding veins.
Hopefully my bones are strong enough to drive 10,000 miles. Hopefully the veins of the wild boar don't have any blood clots in them. Hopefully I brought enough knives with me to never have to really worry about those questions.