I’ll admit, we haven’t locked the house in years. In fact, I’m not even sure if we still have a key to be honest. When we first moved in we tried to be vigilant and even kept a spare key hanging on a nail in the garage. As the years rolled on, the key disappeared, seemed superfluous, and was never replaced. Who in their right mind would want access to this? Blazing lights long after midnight, muddy shoes, barking dogs, basement band practice, and musical cars – at least the ones that are not up on jacks. Surely this would suffice to hold the boldest intruder at bay. Who would care to breach this haphazardry: a house that rarely dims or settles in silence – a veritable fortress of unpredictability and confusion.
So if the unlikely were to happen despite the odds, what would I miss anyway? Is there anything here that I couldn’t part with? Maybe that coffee mug from our cross country trip to Yellowstone? Or the cuckoo clock that has tapped an easy rhythm to our life? Or the hiking boots which are a snug fit each day I pull them on to step outside? Even so, these small things are just that – small things. The things that matter can’t be retained by our walls and the roof – they’re here, but they can’t be taken.