Keys

When I was young, I used to keep a whole box of keys in my closet. Silver and Gold, shiny and dull, old and new -- they all jumbled together in a jewellry case. The only thing they had in common was that I'd found them somewhere (in my granfather's antique boxes, in old purses, in nooks and crannies of our house) and that I didn't know what lock they belonged to. I don't know why I kept them -- I didn't ever test them out in locks, or even expect to find where they belonged -- other than that I felt like it was important somehow. Keys are tools, made to be useful, made for a purpose, and to throw them out just because I didn't seem to know that purpose seemed somehow cruel.

Of course, we all grow up, and one day having a heavy box full of keys to locks long-forgotten seemed as useless as it actually was. I don't have any of those keys anymore, but I still remember them sometime.

Keys are filled with rich symbolism, it seems to me. They are the thing which can ensure our freedom as well as our increased responsibility. The giving of keys is an act of trust, a gesture of goodwill. The taking back of keys means the end of something, of locking a door you'll never be able to open again.

Early in our two years at our apartment in Kingston, I had a fourth set of keys made so that visitors wouldn't have to be dependent on our comings and goings to explore the city. I loved having that extra set, being able to casually give these keys to people whether they were visiting for a day or a week or the summer. I loved the way it said, more than any words could, that I thought of these people not as guests, but as friends and housemates who just happened to be leaving sooner than I would like. My desire to make my apartment a welcoming and open one where people could always find a place to sleep was encapsulated in those two keys which lived in the glass dish in our front hall.

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered another benefit to this extra set of keys. I had been doing well with moving out -- until I had to take my keys off thei ring and leave them in the apartment. Suddenly, it was final. I was leaving, never to return. But then (since we decided that our open-door policy wouldn't perhaps sit well with our landlord) I ended up taking the extra set of keys home with me. And when I found this out, I felt much better about packing up my truck and leaving.

Sure, I was still never coming back. Sure, I would still never be able to reclaim my years as a university student in that scuzzy, sloping, loud, and utterly wonderful apartment. But those keys reminded me that even though I was leaving, I was taking all sorts of good memories with me. I'll never use those keys again, but I know what they mean, and what doors they open.

Perhaps someday a child will discover them, and use them to start another box...