The Map of Enough

I used to draw the map with more on it— the house would be bigger, the job would have a window, the love would be the kind they write about in songs. Somewhere around thirty-five the map simplified. Now it has: one good chair, a window facing east, someone to call when the news is bad, a body that gets me from the bed to the kitchen without asking anything in return. I have stopped touring the rooms of the life I didn't build. I live in this one now— smaller than expected, less impressive from the street, but warm in the places that matter, and mine in the way that only things you've stopped trying to improve can truly be yours. The map says: you are here. For the first time I don't need it to say where else I could be.