The Familiar Leap

Forty-eight countries have hosted me
Those four dozen have left their mark
Almost one for every year I’ve lived

Some are just a smudge
Others are weals
A few as vivid as Japanese calligraphy 

A quarter down
And seventy-five percent to see
Not even half-way there

Yet I halt.
And stare into the abyss
of the unknown—familiarity in its darkness.

What happens next?
Who will I meet?
How will it register?

Eagerness grabs a crumpled map
Fills my bag with hope
And yanks my laces tight.

One small step, and then another.
Creating a line,
Making bridges.