They are the only ones who know where to go. I am the only one who can read them. Three crumpled maps with weathered veins and curved sides like mine. Three who were from the attic’s walls. Three different destinies. From our car, we view them, everybody being keen on the adventure before us.
Their strength is their secrets. They send us on an unknown journey. They are tattered and they are torn and covered in dirt between the crinkles of their skin. This is the way they are.
Shall one remember their existence, they sag within our hands like flowers during the summer heat, each of their veins practically intertwined. Drive, drive, drive they beckon. They know the way.
When I am unable to leave the house and too tired to start an adventure, when I am unprepared to travel, then it is I who begins to look at those maps. When a voyage still calls. Three who are despite their prior conditions. Three who continue to tell the same stories. Three whose stories will not die out.