My box of maps

 


My box of maps

 

Tucked away in the forgotten corner of our attic lies a collection of memories – a box of maps from the days when paper unfolded to reveal the world, and navigation meant tracing the inked trails of highways and byways. As a child, I had a peculiar fascination with these maps, the kind you'd snag for free at gas stations.

 I remember the excitement that bubbled within me as my dad pulled into a station. It wasn't just about refueling; it was about the promise of a new addition to my growing map treasury. I'd scan the racks, eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. The more maps, the better, and my dad, indulging my quirk, would strategically choose stations boasting a plethora of cartographic gems.

 Now, decades later, I find myself puzzled by this box of maps that have survived moves, spring cleanings, and the relentless passage of time. They are relics of a bygone era, utterly useless in a world where digital navigation reigns supreme. Yet, I can't bring myself to part with them.

 Maybe it's the nostalgia embedded in their faded landscapes – the memory of family road trips, the laughter echoing within the car, and the anticipation of uncharted territories. Those maps are a tangible link to a simpler time, a reminder of a child's unfiltered wonder and the joy found in the most unexpected places.

 I've never pulled them out for historical research, and they serve no practical purpose in my GPS-guided life. Still, they remain nestled in my attic, silent storytellers of a past I'm reluctant to let go. Perhaps it's the sentimentality, the magic of preserving a piece of my childhood that keeps me from tossing them aside. These maps are more than paper and ink; they are fragments of a time when the world was smaller, and each journey held the promise of adventure.

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