Mile 488 on Lower Mississippi across from Lake Providence – November 30, 2012
My bones are wired together and connected with strings. My sides ache every time I twist my torso and knots of muscle feel shoved underneath each shoulder blade.
I slept sprawled out on that Louisiana sandbar until the sun dropped to the horizon and I willed ten miles out of my weary body. They came slow, through a haze of barges and two long bends. I felt less part of it than some puppeteer pulling on strings, unable to make one smooth movement in a hundred.
“That’s not a real person,” the crowd would say. “It’s a man made of wood and wire.”
I wouldn’t argue. I would only smile. My body is wrenched apart and the glue piecing it together again hasn’t set, but it will and a hundred miles will be a hundred miles forever.