The Map of Places Not Forgotten

(a semi-autobiographical piece of fiction)

I drove the long way home today. Ten extra blocks due east of you to avoid looking at your apartment building, a place you no longer live, but where memories remain, even on the sidewalk in front of the big bay windows.

And I couldn't drive straight down Broadway because I didn't want to look at the place we shared our first kiss. You can't close your eyes when you are driving or I'd surely squeeze them tight every time I round 60th and Belmont. The long, lingering walks we used to take leave this city divided and subdivided by invisible boundaries that crisscross the history of our time together.

I learned to read a map in third grade social studies. The strict grid system stretched over the textbook pages - north, south, east, and west. If the blue car travels down Ash street and passes Main, Second, and Third streets, which street will it pass next? F-O-U-R-T-H, I diligently wrote in my tall, fat, loopy script, my eight year-old hands tightly gripping the pencil.

I learned to read a map in the third grade, I figured directions and found longitude and latitude. I could tell you where the longest rivers were and where to find mountains and forests. The alphabetical streets always ran perpendicular to the numbered ones.

I learned to read a map, but it doesn't help me avoid the places I cannot forget. The pubs and parks, the 7-11 and the movie theater.

The last time I saw you, we walked to the top of the hill. The moon was full and the cold was creeping through my coats and scarf. We stood and watched the stars come out and you told me a story about going fishing. As I listened to you, I closed my eyes and wished for more time. You kept talking, your low voice rumbling in the night and light puffs of breath swirled from your mouth. I looked further out in the distance, where the tops of the trees ended and the city lights twinkled, and I knew that I would think of you 1000 times in the years to come, but this was the last time we would watch the lights come on together.

So now I drive the long way home, following the secret lines on a map of places I've not forgotten.