Where the Heart Is

[wasellajam]

Where the Heart Is

The world isn't really much
bigger than this map, he said.
It is precisely hand drawn
on yellowing paper, inscribed
with detailed descriptions.
He points to all the places
he's been, where they are
all within walking distance
of the only home he's known.

He laid out his entire life
intentionally- some places
highlighted, others struck through.
As you walk beside him
on the trail by the creek
he stops, at a large old oak-
initials fading, yet clear.
I always knew that girl
would be my wife.

Further up, you cross on flat stones
where the creek is shallow, winding
with the path through tall sycamores.
You come to a small white church
marked with a heart. Behind it
a headstone circled in red. He carefully
folds the map; hands it to me, gently.
It's yours now, son-
you'll know where to find me.

Mark, this is lovely. When I first started reading I wondered why you would put a cliche title on such an interesting poem but by the end I thought the title was just right. Thanks for writing and posting this.