I sent him a compass for his birthday. No card. He knew exactly what it meant.
A brass compass in a velvet box. No name. No return address. He held it and understood the direction.
I mailed it on his birthday.
No card. No name. No return address.
Just a brass compass in a velvet box.
I knew he'd understand.
Because three months ago he told me he felt lost.
Sitting on my porch. Beer in hand. Voice low.
He said I don't know which direction I'm supposed to go.
I said north.
He looked at me.
I said when you're lost go north. That's what my grandfather said.
He asked why north.
I said because it's the only direction that never changes.
He went quiet for a long time.
Three months later I bought the compass.
Had it engraved on the back.
One word. North.
I pictured him opening it.
Turning it over.
Reading the word.
Remembering the porch and the beer and the direction I gave him.
He called me that night. Said one sentence. I opened it. I know which way to go. Then he hung up.