The Gift of Maps
There is a reason men like maps—
A man with a map is a man with a plan.
He’s on the verge of figuring it all out.
Any kind will do— political, thematic,
Topographic, pornographic, geologic,
Your basic road map.
The room silences watching him carefully unfold
Accordion creases of Rand McNally’s finest
Across the span of the dining room table.
The look on his face is arcade enlightenment.
Rest assured, Dad will find the fastest route.
We all cling to the first map we ever got
From way back when we were boys.
Usually it was a gift
From someone who loved us
In lieu of a simpler love.
My boy is in the process
Of getting one from me.
Of course he might not use it;
I would never force him to.
He may find another way to get
Where he thinks he needs to go.
But it's nice to have a map
When you’re first starting out,
To see where you are and what’s ahead—
Landmarks to look out for,
Contingency detours in case
Of heavy traffic or natural disaster.
I still have mine
Folded up and tucked away
In the secret drawer of my heart.
Every now and then I open it up
To remind myself of the beginning
And how I found my way out.
It’s strange to look at it now—
Crude etchings of hills and rivers,
Verdant valleys and curving roads
All colored in crayon
Annotated in the wobbly hand
Of a child. Then I remember
I was never actually gifted one
Like all the other boys—
I had to make my own.
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