It's a glimpse. A little cut out square of home. I am away.
The longer I am here the more I feel like I am losing touch with my way home. As if the ink on my map is fading. As if I've folded and refolded it too many times. The edges are frayed and the creases have holes in them. and every time I pull the map out, just to be sure of where I am, I have to use caution and care. Pull out the map with ease and respect, as if it were a dying friend.
I once heard a quote: "Memory is more indelible than ink"
I think about my map. With it's lazy, floppy pages, the roadways rubbed to oblivion. My map will die and I'll be left with a memory of how to get home.
(Quote by Anita Loos)
