The journey is equal the destination

The packs are already out, cluttering up the living room floor. Gear has been rummaged through, lists tacked to some spot in my head. A part of me that’s been asleep for a long time is stirring. I reach for things I wasn’t even sure I still had and they come to my hand as though time hasn’t passed. I marvel at this.

One of the most important piece is books. What are you going to read on the trip, is one of the most telling questions I can ever ask you. Right now, one book is settled upon: All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. Reading it by headlamp, nestled in my bag, or maybe leaning against my sleeping pad, against a rock still warm from the day’s sun, the collar of my fleece pulled up around my ears, maybe a cup of something hot and strong and spiked near my hand, the fire cracks and sparks up into the dark, aboriginal night, out in the dessert. People will be there, new friends, a cherished loved one, just outside my consciousness when I’m reading it.

I still have a gift card for Borders, from Allison, given to me on Father’s Day. I was saving it for Spanish lessons. Me to get started, Sue to polish her speaking. Maybe we should use it to buy our traveling books. It’s not much. Right now it’s just about all I have, but it’s ours. It’s a start.

I’m so sick of the East. I need a change. To see if I’m whole again. Eight days. Just eight days. It’s a small drink of water, I know. But I’m so curious to see who I’ll see.

I talk to hardly anyone anymore. Sometimes all the words that have passed over my lips seem so wasted.

The dog will have to stay behind. I’m so sorry for that. In his old age, he’s really holding his own. Smart and strong and so fun-loving, there’s a lot to learn from him. A bond so strong is between us, and my heart breaks for the way his hair is still mussed on his head when I call him for his breakfast. The way the hair between his toes splays out, out of control. He doesn’t care. He looks so fragile to me now. And my heart breaks. He has a pedigree and couldn’t care less. I’m just a stray. We both know it about each other and neither of us cares. I stopped caring a long, long time ago. Sometimes I think I do, then something happens and I realize it just doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe it never did. Probably didn’t.