Keys

I may not have _____ but I have this one thing.

 
 

It is a comically oversized, perfectly tactile everywhere-with-me companion, and it descends from my ignition like the ornamental tail on state fair blue ribbon beast of burden. I purchased it online from a 80px by 80px avatar who lives in Iowa crafting things by hand and eating, I assume, at Arby’s, as one does. I paid $13.95 for shipping, expedited.

Mothers may cry GERMS, and fathers SELF-INDULGENCE.

What would possess me to spend one fifth of my financial holdings ($500ish dollars and some long-forgotten Paypal bucket dregs) on this one beautiful thing? Is it the professorial appeal of gen-u-ine leather? Is it the tangible effect of it, whether grasped by rounded palm or grazed over thigh in a fringy salutation? No. It’s because it is so much itself and nothing else, in the way that an apple is the fruitiest fruit, far fruitier than a banana or pear. It’s because it makes me happy every time I see it.

And besides, what else is one’s money for? (TO EAT! you may hear echoing from down the long cold hallway of your personal growth and development, TO SAVE AND GROW!) I can’t hear you, you’ll say, and motion to the cans ensconcing your ears. Podcast, you mouthe. Bluetooth.

This thing of mine ages with me, it is a timeline. Brand new it was completely perfect. Worn, it is more interesting. When the materials are good, there is no worn “out.” Tell that to your daughter when she is 29 and sniffing for mold.

Without this one thing, I go nowhere. My car is a rock. My front door an obelisk. My nervous hands left empty. It is the impetus of both going and returning---surely the two best reasons to move. People are always losing their keys in case studies and spanish language exercises and sitcoms and big fat alibi lies. How the fuck do you really lose your keys? I can’t. I never ever would.

Words by: Adria Kloke
Illustration by: Graham Hart