The Cartographer of Forgetting

She drew the coastlines of her mother's face from what remained — the way salt gathered at the corners of a laughing mouth, the particular angle of light she tilted toward in winter.

The rest she left as open water, unmarked, honest in its blankness. Some geographers name what they don't know. She had learned the better discipline: to hold the blank with care.

There are rooms she cannot enter now. Not locked — the door swings on its hinge, the furniture unchanged, the curtains still that heavy green — but the air inside has become a different language.

She folds the map along its oldest creases, tucks it where the body keeps its warmth. What survives survives as gesture: a hand lifted against the afternoon glare, a name said quietly to no one.