THE SECOND KEY

When I picked up the second key my mind flew across the years past and landed me in front of an important door in my life. It was a door of transitions in my life that would play a very real part in shaping my heart. It was the front door to my home. I know some people have lots of recollections of their childhood, but I do not. Of course, I recall some pivotal moments, scattered and uneven remnants of events that happened a long time ago. But that door, it was an entryway into my home. It was an access point to my family. It was through that door that I would run as a child to let my mother know that I would be riding my bicycle around the block. It was through that door that I would get my BB gun and go on great hunts around Davis Pond. No bird was safe from my predatory skills. It was through that door that would leave and go on long walks down the railroad tracks. Occasionally I would walk to the levee and wander down by the banks of the Mississippi River. I am not sure this was on the "allowed" places to visit, but I did every once in a while. It was through that door that Richard Travis (the preacher that baptized me) came for a visit. He knelt on the floor and prayed for my mother and father to return to the Lord and church. I don't think my father ever did. My mother did years later. I have not spoken to Richard for many years and wish I knew where he was. It was through that door that my parents came home from work one afternoon and found me playing my KISS Rock and Roll Over album so loud they could hear it outside when they drove up. (Little did they know that in modern times, it would be an everyday annoyance to hear someone's music from the street in our living room!) It was through that door that my brother and I walked one Sunday morning. We sat down in a chair and listened to my mother explain that my father was leaving, and they were getting a divorce. It was through that door that my father came back six months later, and my mother left. It was at that door that my mother stood one day. She had come to pick us up. But my father had filled our young minds with the notion that he did not want us to go, that we shouldn't go ... and I watched her leave without me and my brother. All three of our hearts were broken. It was out that door I left in shame to go to a payphone to call my mother to apologize, as if my father would have stopped me. He wouldn't have. But I wanted to please them both. It was through that door that I walked out with suitcases in hand, off to college. At the age of 17 it was an adventure. I returned home for a summer, and then through that door I walked again to go back to school. I seldom returned to visit. Oh, I know I was in and out of that door many many times. Good times and bad times. I scarcely remember that door. Here I am with the key to it. Surely it doesn't fit any more. But that is appropriate, for we can never return to the past and relive the moments we would like to fix. It was not a bad home, nor was I neglected or abused. I never remember wishing I lived with another family or that I was especially unhappy. I talk to my mother almost every day. I set the key down... it is worthless. It just raises a few fragments of memory. Come to think of it, so does that other key....