Friday, April 4, 2014

The key

Recently my mother gave me my father's key to the house.  This is the key to the house I grew up in, where my mother still lives and where I take my kids once a year to see Grandma Jean.  I don't know where she found it, or how long she's been holding on to it.  My dad passed away something short of 15 years ago.  When I hold the key, or see it lying on my counter, I think of him.  It's not my memories of him that I think of, but out of some kind of magic, it's his spirit that comes to mind.  It's those things that I really didn't notice about him when he was living that stay with me now.  How does this happen?  The small things, like the things that would make him smile, or the way he acted when he was being patient with my mom.  The fact that I never heard him raise his voice to anyone in any way that seemed like anger or frustration.  He has been very solid for me my whole life, even since he's been gone.  I'm so happy I am his daughter.  Maybe the key is here to remind me of that.

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