Boundary, threshold and challenge, we accumulate the keys we need to pass from one territory to the next.
Shoulder, Bow, Cuts and Tip. Bought, made, found or given. Forged through wisdom or delivered in dream.
Passed through generations, then gone, through a seam, or retired to a place just a little too safe to be seen.
A hand on the door, eye at the keyhole, a rattle of handle and sniff of the tumblers. You get a feeling for the key you’ll need.
Door after door, endlessly more. Their faces erased by the joy of opening. I can barely remember them.
But the keys, like old friends, I’ll never forget.