There is a room. In that room are the things I’ve kept. I wonder why it is I’ve kept anything, but in that room are those things. In that room of the things I have kept is a box …and in that box is a book. It is my mother’s book and now, it is my book, too.

There is a map in that book. It is not a map with a compass on it denoting direction. It does not have dots signifying the names of places. There are no names of places, in fact, save one …Sagres. The map is a landscape of words written on the bare page of the fly leaf in my mother’s book …the book that is now my book. The writing is small and even on that page. The lines of words creating sentences are thoughtfully straight.

It has been years since I found that map. I remember some of those words that my mother wrote. I have forgotten others. My mother wrote those words for me. She told me where that book was. She told me where it could be found. I would go through her things after it was all over. I would find that book. I would open it …and there that map would be. My mother didn’t have much to leave me, but she would leave this map …a treasure map with no “X” to mark the spot …just a word …Sagres.