Today is the day, my son, when I lay out the map of truth.
Here, run your hands across its contours, push and probe into the dips.
Happenstance, happy accidents and bad choices
Formed around the moments, turning sour or sweet upon the lips.
I lived each fucking one and now, my boy, I pass these on to you.
Look here, observe the moment when I screamed
Silently, my forehead pressed against the door.
Then emerged and smiled and lied my way to close of business,
And never let the fuckers see me cry or on the floor.
And went home to my wife whose will held mine and from whom bubbled up
An endless well of love and funny grace.
Whose boundaries touched the limits of my universe,
And drew a line upon the map to match the lines upon her face.

Brian Rutherford

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