In a centuries-old inn, hanging on the edge of a Colorado mountainside, a key museum—1000 keys dangle from the ceiling, lay in dusty shadow boxes, or swing from faded ribbons tied to 10-pound nails—none of them unlock or lock anything anymore.
Rock Hudson’s bedroom, Greta Garbo’s Caddie key, commemorative keys to the city of Jackson, Wyoming, and Innsbruck, Germany. Half keys for lovers to keep, keys to the kingdom of somewhere. Skeleton keys and blank keys waiting to open anything.
The key to my heart hangs on a nail in the kitchen. Sometimes, I wear it on my sleeve or hang it on a ribbon around my neck. Often it rests heavy or bangs on my solar plexus trying to get in.
just out of reach…