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I’ve been scouring the house inside and out for the past three days, trying to look for a map. It’s actually more than a map. It’s a booklet to be more exact, and it’s a guide of where, when and how to go around London. It’s a really good guide, that one. Oh I’m sure I can buy a new map once we’re there (maps can be bought at every street corner/kiosk), and I’m also very certain that there are better maps than the one I bought four years ago. But that map/guide is dear to me. It has sentimental value, if you can believe it. A lot of creased corners, visited landmarks underlined in yellow, even used museum tickets were inserted in between the pages. I want that old map.

The funny thing was, as I was perusing through my old stuff collected through the years (as one is inclined to do while cleaning, yes?), I found some things I never thought I’d see ever again. Old thank you notes from students back when I was a first year-first term teacher. Old keepsakes from friends. Old photographs. Mementos of years gone by. Reminders of where I’d been; of how I’d been.

That was when I realized, those stuff I’ve unearthed were like maps of a sort. A guide to the experiences I’ve had, a map to the kind of person I have now become.

I will still need a map, a literal one, come May next year. But the main difference, and this I’m quite sure of, is that the map I will be using will guide not one, not two, but three women out to collect a spring to remember. Suffice it to say and it is beyond any doubt the two women who will be with me will also transform how I will value that map in years to come.

I hope to the gods I don’t lose that future map.

— Frankie

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