“Honey! Have you seen my keys?”
I loathe those words when they fly from the wifey’s mouth. I hear them all too often. And the word “keys” is an interchangeable word sometimes replaced with “phone,” “mind,” “other shoe,” and “purse.”
More times than I care to count, I’ve come home only to be greeted at the door by my wife’s keys hanging from the lock on the outside of the door. Yeah…the side of the door the entire world has access to. I’ve even found them early in the morning like that, which means they were dangling there all night giving anyone and everyone free access to our house, cars, and lives.
But then I think, what if my infamous words “oh, they just grew legs and walked off all by themselves huh?” where actually true? What if those keys just had “enough?”
I mean, in all reality, they share the same experiences as us, day-in and day-out. They’re snatched from their resting spot early in the morning, make the commute, sit at the work desk all day, drive home, make a quick stop at the store, experience the challenges of family life, and finally, when it’s the end of the day, settle in to relax before it all starts over again. And again.
Maybe they’ve had enough.
When all the lights are turned down for the final moment before slumber takes over, they poke their heads up for one last safety look. The beauty of being the keys is they have an all access pass.
Maybe they go for a drive and end up on some random bar, soaking in the alcohol from the air and listening to stories spewing from barstools filled souls.
Maybe they find their way to the top of the water tower—a place of solitude, where as their eyes survey all that lies before them, their minds wander, remembering, considering, projecting, and sometimes causing a smile. It’s a place where they’re comfortably aware that the slightest misstep could mean their life.
Maybe they slowly talk themselves into creeping into Home Depot, wandering the isles while deep down knowing the entire reason they’re there is to find the key cutting isle. The Mecca of un-carved flat metal pieces dangling hopelessly, unscathed of repeatedly being shoved into locks and pockets, thrown on desks and floors…living a life.
Maybe that’s always the last place they go. Maybe because the thought of erasing it all, starting over, being carved again from scratch is that sexy dream floating in their head—something fun to occasionally poke a stick at. But in reality, the scars, the repetition, the memories, each delicately carved notch is what makes them who they are.
And they crawl back home. Slide back into that familiar front door lock—their home. They take the risk of staying their all night, just so they can feel the warmth, security, and knowledge this IS where they belong. And, that they were one day carved, specifically to experience this. This time. This place. This family. This…
This life.