Eulogy for the 39th Hour

Once I held a map.

Its thin, crinkled form could be carried on the wind,

yet,

it anchored me to a path of stone, straight and true.

As my steps traced those sturdy ways, I unfolded those creased edges – well-pressed trees, sharp and foreign.

Then,

sought high, low, above, below, around.

Nothing I saw fit my map.

I stretched it wide, turned it thrice, and raised it to the light. Rays shone through the pages and revealed no hidden truths.

The light cast the ink-black lines in knife’s-edge contrast.

Emphasizing – Mocking – Revealing

map and path as strangers.

A braver, wilder soul (a reckless soul?) would have fled the stones, crashing through curtains of leaf, bark, and secrets.

But I am a man who had a map.

I left its yellowed pages in the mud, and continued down the path.

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Don’t worry, I’m fine. I wrote this around 3pm after a long work week.

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