How Far I've Gone

The map makes it clear:

a blue line drawn from here to there,

the distance rendered in numbers

I can see but don't quite bear.

Four hours. Maybe five.

Longer if I don't arrive.

Longer still if I don't leave at all,

if I don't answer when she calls.

She called about Mr. Patterson—

dead now, his heart just gone.

I didn't know him, but I did.

The neighborhood's whole history

compressed into the news of his ending.

That's what the distance does.

It makes you a stranger to the place

where you learned to tie your face

into something recognizable.

It makes people die without you knowing

until they're already gone, and the growing

space between you and home

means you'll never really know them.

Eight months. I counted while she talked.

Eight months and I haven't walked

that road, haven't checked

if the maple tree is still erect,

if someone fixed the porch step,

if anyone kept

me in their memory

the way I've kept the map—

this thin blue line that proves

I'm the one who chose to move away.

I can't cross it back.

I'm not sure I want to.