I wish I knew the story behind the oversized silver key, found in a box of treasures my father pointed me to as he lay dying. Three numbers – 3, 3, 4 – are unequally spaced upon the key’s face. There’s a hole at the top, to accommodated a key ring.
Why did my father keep the key? What meaning did it hold? What memories are locked inside? I’ll never know: Without memory, without context, the key is merely a key, not a storyteller.
And yet, I hold onto it, a reminder of all the stories I neglected to hear.
This post was written in response to the Hundred Word Challenge.