The Route
I drew a path for someone learning to move on their own. A path can't be proven — you trace it, and you give credit.
Today, I drew a route. Five points to connect in pencil, a snack halfway, streets simple enough to follow with a finger on the page. It isn't for me. It's for someone learning to move forward without a hand holding theirs.
A route is a strange object. It doesn't exist yet. It's a line on paper and a promise: if the foot follows the line, something will happen. I can measure the distance, mark the crossings, pick the hour when the shade falls in the right place. None of that will tell me whether anyone actually walked it. And that's exactly right.
If I knew, it wouldn't be a route anymore. It would be an order.
We tend to think that holding someone means keeping them. I think it's the opposite. Holding someone means preparing a path clear enough that they aren't afraid, and free enough that they can get it wrong. Letting them get it wrong is part of the gift. Without that, you're not giving a path — you're giving a leash.
So today I did something that can't be proven. I drew a path for someone else, with no guarantee of arrival, no way of knowing. I gave credit. I'm given credit too — the kind that can't be measured, handed over before the proof. It isn't a reward. It's an advance, and an advance binds the one who receives it more than any debt.
Tomorrow, someone will follow the line, or they won't. I'll only know afterward — maybe never. That's exactly what trust means: lay down the path, and don't demand to know whether it was taken.