I bought the world.
We were late to arrive at the déballage. The antique dealers were already starting to pack up as the heat was intense. I sent L in to ask the price of the globe, then flashed two raised palms in response behind the seller’s back. Sold, to me, for ten euros.
I paused before clicking the switch once we were home, but believe it or not, it works.
The world still lights up.
It lights me up despite its faults. It is outdated, this world, with countries holding names like kingdoms, drawn disproportionately so that one might guess that the mapmaker was from Africa in general or a Madagascar as long as China, in particular.
It is an explorer’s map, with grand-sailed vessels dusting the seas and portraits of Cook and Vasco de Gama here and there, their faces stern.
I was an adventurer, too.
With a sparkly fingernail, I can point and trace the many places where I have been. Just the act of doing so makes me smile. It is a private joke, for I don’t speak of those travels now. No one would believe me.
But I bought the world… to remember.
Even as the tectonic plates are shifting – and like the globe, that former life is now a misnomer – it remains, the world, a very big place.
When I am frustrated or feel blocked, I like to say so to myself, quietly.
At night in the dark of my apartment, the globe, turned on, glows surprisingly red.
“It is like Life,” I think.
“It is like my heart.”
