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I had a key once,
it was shiny and new with crisp teeth, but it had deep scratches on its back where the dark brass showed through the chrome, scratches from the rough asphalt where I found it. A parking lot. I picked it up and put it in the pocket of my coat. When I walked, my fingers slipped into my pocket to find it, to reassure myself that it was still there, reassure it that I was still there. I carried it with me through winter, spring, but in the summer it hung forgotten with my coat in the closet. In the fall I gave it away. I drove fifteen hours to see her and that night we sat on the swings of a wet playground and talked and laughed together. I hope she is taking good care of you, Key. I really worry sometimes. It was a beginning then, I thought--a doorway to open and step through. I was wrong, I think now, but now you are gone and she is gone too perhaps. So many miles gone. But when I used you the door was not opened. I was eager and blind and I turned you in the lock, locking it where it had once been open. Now without you Key I am lost and I do not know if the door will open again. |
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