The Key

The blue was all around me, cool and quiet. I felt myself sink deeper, weightless, and yet pulled further into the void below. A light flickered above me, and I reached out my hand as if to grab hold of it, but suddenly a noise jolted me awake. I slapped the alarm clock and rolled back onto the pillow, letting the fog lift as I wiggled my toes and rubbed my eyes. I have gotten used to waking up alone, maybe too used to it, but this time I wished more than anything John wasn’t working the nightshift. I had not slept well, and I was not looking forward to what the day would bring. It was all too much to think about.

Thirty minutes later, as I was stepping out of the shower, I heard the keypad on the front door beep, then the clicking sound of the deadbolt. I poked my head out and shouted my hello down the hall, trying to sound cheerful, but as soon as I saw him appear in the hallway I began to cry. He has always been my safe space, the one place I could go when I needed to break. And I was broken. He set his bag down and followed me into the bedroom where I sat on the edge of the bed, still wet and wrapped in a towel, heaping gulps of breath filling me as I sobbed. He just wrapped himself around me and said nothing. I’m here. He was good at that. Knowing I didn’t need to hear anything. To just be allowed to be broken.

The morning was dim and gray around the edges. I pulled my sweater tighter around me as John drove us through the quaint downtown area and out onto the highway. By the time the mountains came into view the sun was commanding the sky and my grief thawed as I thought of the old barn. Soon we’d be pulling up to the farmhouse, the familiar sound of gravel under the tires, Meg waving from the porch. Meg. I can’t even imagine how she must be feeling right now. She had been there taking care of Dad for so long I almost couldn’t remember who she was before Mom died. She was seven years older than I and had been walking in Mom’s footsteps for almost 11 years. What dreams did she put on hold to be there for me? And then for Dad after I left home? What would she do now?

The farmhouse looked so small to me now as our car made it down the long driveway. The trees that lined the drive were bare this time of year, revealing a canopy of intricately woven branches overhead, the sky peeking through in odd shapes. My stomach lurched when I saw the mint green tailgate of Dad’s truck peeking out from inside the barn and I felt my eyes prickle. My childhood was filled with memories of Dad and I in that truck, and he had even taught me to drive in it. I half expected him to come from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag, to meet us. John squeezed my hand and gave me a knowing look. I’m here.

The scent of lilies flooded me as we entered the house, the door creaking shut behind us. Meg came flying out of the back room, arms outstretched, no doubt having just finished preparing our room for us. She looked exhausted, but beautiful as ever, and her hug was everything. Visitors had been by with flower arrangements and casseroles, and there were cards propped on every surface. Yes, Dad was well-loved and would be missed by all.

No one felt like eating, but we sat together dipping baguettes into our soup crocks, sipping whisky, and exchanging stories. Dad ate the same thing for lunch every day. He was always the first to crack a bad joke. He was stubborn as a mule. He never let anyone in his barn, except for me. Everyone in town knew him by name and he was at Griff’s every Sunday after church for supper and the latest gossip. No one had a bigger heart. Everyone knew Dad, but no one knew him like we did.

The next morning, I woke to find Meg already making biscuits. I closed the door so John could sleep and made my way toward the smell of butter and honey. She nodded me over to table and set a cup of coffee in front of me, then threw a piece of ham into a skillet. I began to tell her I was sorry for not coming sooner, but the words stuck in my throat. She understood. She always had. She had always been an anchor for me as a child, through my teenage years, and as I navigated college and met John. Meg had a few boyfriends over the years, but none of them had stuck. This was her home and where she was content to work in the gardens and spend weekends at the Farmer’s Market. I asked what she would do now, but she just shook her head as if to say there was no reason to do any differently.

The rest of the day spun around me. I barley heard the preacher’s words as we laid Dad to rest or saw the faces of the visitors who came to the reception. Meg hurried around making sure everything was just so. Every now and then I would see John glance over at me. I’m here. But after the whirlwind died down and the last of the guests had left, the quiet seemed too much to bear. I took refuge down the garden path to the stone bench alongside the pond. It was so peaceful here, even in the colder months when the crickets were hiding, and the lightning bugs snuffed out by the cold. Something moved out of the corner of my eye, and I turned to see a small owl take flight from the branches and fly toward the barn, beckoning me to follow it. As I got closer, I could see the truck had been carefully covered with a tarp, just the back end peeking out. I had spent so much time in here with Dad. All his tools were right where I remembered. A variety of chisels, planers, and mallets. A myriad of others I still didn’t know the names of. There was a bucket I used to flip over and sit on so I could keep dad company while I colored pictures and wrote stories. There was a special spot way up on a shelf over his workbench I kept a little box. I would climb his wooden ladder to get to it and leave my stories or little notes in it for Dad to find, and he eventually started leaving me notes back. I smiled at the thought of it; of getting off the school bus and running down gravel path to the barn to check if there was a new note for me.

Suddenly I saw a fluttering and glanced up to see the barn owl sitting on the shelf. I'm here. It looked like it had made a nest there, but I could see a small corner of the wooden box under the straw and grass pieces. Had he kept it there all this time? I found the wooden ladder and propped it against the wall, carefully not to startle the owl, and held my breath as I gently swept some of the straw nest aside. Three little beaks popped out and began to chirp for food and I nearly fell backward. I grinned at the barn owl who seemed proud of what she had done. There, on the shelf next to the nest, was the little wooden box.

I sat for a minute on the bucket just looking at the box, amused at my Dad for having kept it there. Inside was a folded piece of paper. As I opened the note, I could see it had not been there for very long, and it was written in Dad’s hand with a blue pen. I thought of him reaching into his shirt pocket for his pen to write me a final note and my eyes filled with tears.

My Dear Laura,

I’m here, always. I love you, Dad.

Tied onto a mint green ribbon was a key. His key. The key to his truck. Somehow, he knew I would find it. I glanced up at the barn owl, now busy tending to her young. Thank you I whispered.