You Are Here

There are people in our lives we carry with us; people who are like illuminated points on a “You are Here” map. Your best friend from high school over in Philadelphia, your cousin who sells flowers at the Farmer’s Market in San Francisco, the ex-boyfriend you would have married, in France. Some places in the world are illuminated with great clusters of points; your extended family in Nevada and Arizona, In-laws in South America, friends from the church, temple, mosque or book club you left behind when you relocated.

Our maps become brighter as new people enter our life; the person from traffic school you connected with instantly, the woman on the plane from Florida who reminded you of your grandmother, your brother’s new baby girl. Rarely do the points stay fixed. They move and change like glowing swarms of bees. Some sputter and spark, some shine with a warm constant light and some are like lighthouse beacons, banishing shadows, guiding you home. You are here. You are here and here and you are over here, too. This is where you can find yourself. This is where you have people.

The cartographer didn't limit herself to the planet. Above the earthly plane there are illuminated points of light as well. A little girl who lost her father to cancer was certain that a bright yellow star she saw every night was him. The summer of his death she would soar high in the tree swing he had built for her, lean back and look up at the night sky. “I see you, Daddy,” she would whisper. The star would pulse; radiant, golden. You are here, my daughter. A wondrous woman roller-skated well into her eighties before cancer forced her to bed.

To the children who were drawn to her like bean sprouts to the sun, she said “You mustn't be afraid of dying. Dying is wonderful! You finally get to fly and see the stars up close!” And then she closed her eyes and flew away. You are here, my children. There is a picture on a bureau somewhere on earth of three women in crazy hats. One has a bird nesting on the brim, the other has straw fringe hanging down below her forehead, and the other is enfolded in a sombrero so large it overlaps the other two; the wearer is only visible from her nose up.

Two of the women are looking directly at the camera with knowing, mischievous laughter. A mother and daughter. The daughter died suddenly, prematurely of a heart attack, the mother, broken hearted, soon followed. The woman whose eyes you can’t see lives on, but will most likely die next. When she does the picture will shift and her eyes will peer impishly from under the sombrero. You are here my love, my children, my grandchildren. You are here my sister, my brother, my niece and my nephew. You are here my cousin, my neighbor, my friend. And we are there. It’s only man’s illusion of time and space that separates us.

By Laurie Guerin