Could you Tell me Where I Am?

I didn't find this house; Steven found it.  No map of mine led me here, and yet here I am, all of these years later.

Nor did I find the route we took through Peru together, years ago, nor the one through Ecuador, nor the one up the Pacific coast of Mexico.

People say that men won't ask for directions.

But I was the only one who spoke Spanish, so what was there for him to ask?

The trips we took together were reminders.  Of everything.  It took every ounce of courage just to ask; how could I then also listen?

In any language? Even my own?

You have to be able to picture yourself there, standing on a corner.  There are those who have to locate their hands -- to remind themselves which way is right, which way is left.

I don't have that problem; still, when all I can do is desperately listen -- listen for both of us -- my strengths are of no use to me.  To me or anyone.  Neither all the languages I speak, nor my strong sense of right versus left, nor my ability to close my eyes and see myself from a bird's eye view, nor the uncanny strength of my deceptively small body.  A strength that seems to only make my heart pump harder, and that's not helping.

***

Somehow, we found our way to places together despite it all.  And, after, somehow we even made it home.

Long before, two strangers from another decade brought each of us into the world. We're the ones who decide to stay.