What the Cartographer Left Unnamed

The old man drew coastlines from memory, his hand moving the way rivers move— not by decision, but by the shape of what resists.

He left one inlet blank. Not forgotten: held. Some places are kept by not naming them.

I have a room like that. No door marked, no light switch found, but I know it by the cold that comes from it in certain seasons.

You asked me once why I flinch at the smell of cedar and old wool. I told you the wrong story, the easier one.

The true map has always included that room, that coast, that inlet without a name— the cartographer's mercy: to know a thing and choose, still, not to fix it to the page.