Is this what we were looking for?

Weeds so tall we could barely see the house,
the contours of the land disappearing beneath them.

We walked a bit, checking for cracks and an uneven roof,
ankles turning as our tentative steps found holes.

Where would we begin?
We didn’t say it out loud. We just started.

I’d been thinking about maps.

Years ago I created a map of my great aunt.
Not of places but of what passed between us.

Now we walk the land the same way—
not knowing exactly what we’ll find,
but marking, shaping, beginning,
mapping something new.

Early on, the compact farmhouse needed taming
inside and out.
Walls crowded the space.
We documented the first hints of destruction—
seeking flow and light.

On to the garden. 
Paths first, I walked and marked.
Visualizing a medronho tree here
A bed of iris there.

I played with curves and connections. 
Then the digging, clearing, digging, clearing.

We mapped through and over the top of someone else’s story, 
salvaging old photos,
honoring what was, 
creating what we envisioned it could become.

What maps have you carried?

Which ones are still folded somewhere?

I sat in the garden on this warm spring day to eat my lunch. 
A white butterfly camouflaged each time it returned to a white lily. 
Birds settled in the apricot tree to spy on the other inhabitants.

The map blurred now— 
lilies and hyacinth, 
cosmos and poppies.