A Map of the Known World by Lisa Ann Sandell Page A

back his head and laugh wildly, shouting and grinning. I loved his abandon, the way he could just laugh and laugh. Dropping my feet, I drag the swing to a halt. Then, I pull out my pencils and pad. I draw tiny crosshatch strokes, filling in two little children perched on the tire swing, calling up the pure joy in Nate’s eight-year-old face, a dad pushing them from behind, his face lit with pleasure, as well, and I feel this twinge of happiness.
    I spend the rest of the day visiting the middle school we attended together; the Wyatt cornfields, where we used to play spies; the Wilson Farm, where we would take hayrides in the autumn; the skating pond, where we’d go on the coldest days of winter, bundled into our parkas, skates strapped to our feet, and where Nate would sometimes move so quickly, he skimmed the surface of the pond like a bird on wing.
    When I was small, probably six or seven, my parents let Nate take me to the pond, just the two of us, and I remember I was wearing so many layers—undershirt, T-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt, parka, ski pants—that I could hardly move. And down I went in the middle of the pond, too laden with clothes to work my way back onto my feet again. Then Nate, spotting me from the other side, flew to me, grabbed my hands and pulled me upright. Walking me over to the benches at the side of the pond, he helped me peel off my sweatshirt, then, pressing a warm hand to my tearstained cheek, he whispered, “Here you go, Squirt, you’re all set.”
    I draw and sketch and fill my pad with images of all the places we had loved together. And I can feel the pieces of my heart coming back, glued together with a tenderness, as I revisit all these places, as I allow the memories in, as I let myself really see my town the way I used to when Nate and I were little. And I can almost start to love it again. Almost.
    When the sun begins to set, I still have one final place to go. The bent tree off of the county road. It marks the spot where Nate was killed. Slowly, I head through the streets of Lincoln Grove to the county road heading east out of town. My feet move reluctantly on the pedals. I ride along the shoulder of the road and soon come to the part of the guardrail that is dented and misshapen, that is bent in the shape of a Honda Civic. I steer off the shoulder, into the grass at the side of the road. AsI near the big oak tree, my knees begin to shake, and I start to feel queasy.
    “You can do this,” I mutter to myself. I swing my leg over the bike seat and walk it the rest of the way.
    Then I crawl beneath the umbrella of tree branches, pausing at the foot of its white-gray trunk. I turn and run my hands over the coarse bark, letting my fingers find the evidence of Nate’s accident. There it is. A bumpy seam at about waist height. The tree still bears the scar of his collision. The tree shares my hurt. Once again I bring out my pad and begin to draw. But I don’t draw Nate or his Honda. I just sketch the tree without its scar, the road without any cars. It is a scene of peace.
    When I am done, I sit at the base of the tree and close my eyes, letting the cool autumn breeze find my face. It is nearly dinnertime, and my parents are probably freaking out. I take a deep breath and dig my fingers into the dirt beside me. The moss and dead leaves that have fallen from the oak are soft and damp. There is a sweet, familiar scent in the air, clinging to the ground. Here, now, I feel close to Nate. Really close to him.
    Time to go. I pedal away from the oak tree, the disfigured guardrail, but I do not look back at any of it. I ride home.
    The lights are on outside the house. Quickly, I push the kickstand down and go inside. My mom is in the kitchen. She looks up as I enter.
    “Where have you been? I was worried sick,” she says, her voice bleeding exhaustion and worry.
    “Sorry. I should have left a note, I guess,” I reply. “I was just riding my bike around.” I do feel sorry. Not too sorry, but