You have so many now. When I had a key it was one, on a shoelace, tucked under my shirt, and it opened the front door and that was the whole world. You have a fat jangly bunch. I counted seven.
I don't know what they all open. One is fat and black and I think it starts the car, which means you have a car, which is amazing, I have been waiting my whole life to tell you that is amazing. But you throw them in the bowl by the door without even looking. Like they're nothing. Like a car is nothing.
There's a tiny one, too small for any door. Is that the diary key? Please say you still have a diary. Please say you still write down the true things and hide them somewhere only you know.
You spin the whole bunch on your finger while you wait for the coffee to drip. Round and round. I used to do that with the shoelace one. So you kept something.
Here is what I want to know. All these locked places you carry the keys to now: is one of them a room where you make things? A shed, a desk, anywhere. You promised me a workshop. You promised there would be sawdust.
If not that's okay. But if you find a key one day and can't remember what it opens, will you go look?
It might be a door I told you about.