It seems so small to me now, this map of my childhood memories. The long boulevard covers only a few inches, and the daily trip to Steffanie’s house looks like nothing. The image makes me ache with nostalgia, and I pity the paper for all it lacks – the Little League players in the park, the geese in the lake, the annual garage sales on our street, and the crisp new cookie-cutter homes that took the place of my beloved nursery when I was eleven. Instead all it sees is lines, simplified and mechanical incarnations of what was the touchstone of my life for so long. Its purpose is not to live but to lead strangers from street to street. It was never meant to outline my adventures but to allow others to navigate stories for themselves. It is a canvas for them to map out their own memories, just as I mapped out mine.
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