K is for keys.
One of those symbolic words, archetypical. Especially for an item in one's pocket. The secret, the magic word, the trick, authority, keys to the kingdom, holder of the keys. And the item in this modern word most readily mislaid.
"Where are my keys?"
I've been trying to remember when I first had keys, since someone was always home. My mother had been a latchkey kid, and tried to keep that from me. Sadly, because I'd have loved more time alone, more independence and autonomy. I do remember the key ring, with a leather tab with Woodstock, a broken egg, and the motto "You crack me up." Not exactly the height of wit, but maybe it helps with the dating. Not younger than eight, probably more like 12, maybe later than that. The image wore off quickly, leaving me with a leather fidget that fit my hand perfectly. I was terrible with unlocking doors, always struggled with making them work. May have had to do with old doors and old locks therein.
I loved having a lot of keys when I was young. Keys to apartment, work, car, mailbox, made me feel responsible, adult. Later, I only wanted to thin down the keys I had to carry. I've had various keyrings over the years. The knotwork bob I currently carry came to me on Breed's (Bunker) HIll on Bunker Hill Day in Cambridge. We'd gone to see the USS Constitution, only as we started seeing way too many uniforms did we find out about the holiday. Stayed for the parade.
Three keys. Seems plenty.
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