I threw away my map the day we met. I was content for you to be my cartographer. Charting my impassable synapses, the paths of tributaries, the ranges of spine and rib. You found my Atlantis, raised up all my lost cities and gave them new names. Inked them on my skin. Named each thigh a Sunday drive. Turned each foot true north. Toward you.

All of here of us still here, despite surgeries of body and spirit. Many meals cooked, some medicating, some drudgery, some lovingly, most nourishing. Words arranged on the page into poems and stories, a food for me, sometimes a dish for the unseen reader. Day work that pays for ingredients for food, some contact with people in office halls, spice in an otherwise bland nine-to-five life. Their stories. A sweet tooth. An allergy. The gift of teas or chocolate with a holiday card. The surprised look up from email or speaker phone. For me? Year of broken routines.

Our winter tulips

open, pistil and stamens

gape. Bulb to

vase. This? This? They

thrust their paling stems

at us.