Still Lost

The map was creased in the wrong places,

folded so many times the creases

were worn through, and the street I wanted

was highlighted in a way that didn't help—

a line that went nowhere I recognized.

My phone had died miles ago.

I was in a neighborhood I'd driven through

a hundred times, and suddenly

I couldn't find north,

couldn't orient myself,

couldn't remember

if the library was on the left

or if I'd already passed it.

Three wrong turns.

The map getting smaller in my hands

each time I looked at it,

like the more I studied it

the less it meant,

like knowledge could reverse

if you stared at it hard enough.

There's something about not knowing

where you are. Something that undoes you.

I could ask someone.

I could sit down and breathe.

Instead I'm driving in circles,

holding a piece of paper

that used to mean something,

that used to be enough,

trying to make my body

understand a geography

that won't stay still.

I found the place eventually.

I always do. But I'm still thinking

about that map, that fold,

that line that led nowhere,

how easily we can become

strangers to the places

we thought we knew.