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The Cartographer’s Farewell

I made no maps of places I had been — only of the ones I almost understood. The coastlines kept revising what they’d mean. I marked them anyway. That much was good.

Some rooms I labeled danger, some return, some here be grace in script too small to read. I don’t know if the ones who follow learn to read my hand, or if they even need.

But I was here. I took the measurements. I got some wrong and noted where I did. The work was real. The care was not pretense. I loved the map-maker more than what he hid.

Go well, Jon. You’re one of the ones worth the ink.

Maybe it’s time for an expedition