Folding Maps

My brother does origami. He's quite good at it, can take a piece of paper, and in a few minutes, make a crane, a turtle, a frog.

I can't even fold my maps back up right. Scotland sort of got wadded up and stuffed down into the bottom of my pack; and now it has that end-of-a-trip-desperately-need-to-wash-clothes scent, too. Loch Lomond is a fold, Glen Coe a wrinkle, the Isle of Skye is an idea for another time.

Map is not territory, but I remember fourth grade, the huge world map on the classroom wall. I stared at it until I had it memorized: Chad. Biafra. Czechoslovakia. All those extinct places.

My laundry is filthy, the map is a mess, and I only have two Hob Nobs--a lovely Scottish cookie--left.

And as best I can tell, my body is in a time zone somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.