Greeted by her doctor at the finish line, he was equally proud and concerned for the oldest woman to complete a marathon.

“We should get you back to the hospital. I need to run some tests.”

“This was the test,” she barked, bent over pointing behind her, “I think I passed.”

“Do you have any pain? Soreness? Did you hear any popping sounds?” He asked.

She outlived the warranty on her hips, and this would be her third set. She ran every year and most years her legs out fought her joints. Her muscles crushing the lightweight alloy plates and carbon fiber pins. Doctors would bid every year to be the ones to try and put her back together; to be the ones to keep her running. A semi-celebrity status grew out of this cornerstone challenge.

Later that night over a celebratory dinner, they debated who’s lifetime achievement was greater.

“I built the artificial hip that you couldn’t break.” He laid back smirked.

“I am the oldest woman to run a marathon.” She responded.

They declared it again and again, never tired of hearing it. And, yet, without each other, their achievements in separate, wouldn’t exist.

Jul 13, 2015 Stacey V rated it 5 of 5 stars  ·  review of another edition
Beautiful anthology of short stories with fluid, lyrical writing styles. I enjoyed trying to uncover the link to "bones" in each story, as suggested by the title. It's there--sometimes more subtle than you might anticipate! A great read.

From GoodReads.com click the review for the link, Thanks for reading Stacey V!

Beating up on suburbia feels like kicking a dead horse?
Her hooves are manicured in cement painted taupe
It’s easy on our eyes, the color, this lifestyle.

When the National Geographic magazines show up donated
to the school library, they are so frayed we stop and ask
Is this how they’re living now? In Africa?
It’s 1998 and the magazines are dated 1990
Or have they seen some change?
Eight years is more than half a lifetime,
when you’re only fourteen

Have they been vaccinated?
Of what?
Of everything?
Do they have indoor plumbing?
In the very least…

Maybe they were put on the fast track?
We slipped them cheat sheets to an easier life?
Imperialism?
This is a lightbulb.
This is a sink.
This is healthcare.

There is a foundation to everything we do.
What we have come to know,
And it reaches
just about
the length of our arms.
And you can stay in these patterns of thought;
you can send them in circles around your head.
You can call it Nascar.

I don’t think the librarian had time to tell us,

that they prefer to live that way because
it is what they know;
it is where their adaptations lie.

She probably wanted to tell us,

it’s what we know, what was handed to us,
that has us firmly placed where we are now.

Instead she just put her longest finger to her lips
and said shhhh.
Because she isn’t a teacher, she’s a librarian,
besides she doesn’t live like us either.
She has an apartment filled with books,
in the tighter more condensed part of town.
Where I’ve heard people live before they figure things out.
Before their priorities are set on owning
dead horses,
with hooves manicured -in cement, painted taupe