Lock and Key

Everyone has their weak spot.  The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise.

My point is, there are a lot of people in the world. No one ever sees everything the same way you do; it just doesn't happen. So when you find one person who gets a couple of things, especially if they're important ones... you might as well hold on to them. You know?

Not every thing's perfect, especially in the beginning. and its all right to have a little big of regret every once in a while. It's when you feel it all the time and can't do anything about it... that's when you get into trouble.

If you didn't always have to choose between turning away for good or rushing in deeper.

In the moments that it really counts, maybe it's enough - more than enough, even - just to be there.

The further you go, the more you have to be proud of.  At the same time, in order to come a long way, you have to be behind to begin with.  In the end, though maybe it's not how you reach a place that matters.  Just that you get there at all.

Looking back, it seemed like it should have been harder to lose someone, or have them lose you, especially when they were in the same state, only a few towns over.

Leaving was easy. It was everything else that was so damned hard.

At the same time, though, I was beginning to wonder if this was just how it was supposed to be for me, like perhaps I wasn't capable of having that many people in my life at any one time. My mom turned up, Nate walked away, one door opening as another clicked shut.

I paused, only just now realizing that the subject was hitting a little close to home. "You know, getting hurt. Putting herself out there, opening up to someone."
Yeah," he said adding some cheese straws to the cart, "but risk is just part of relationships. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't."
I picked up a box of cheese straws, examining it. "Yeah," I said. "But it's not all about chance, either."

There's just something obvious about emptiness, even when you try to convince yourself otherwise.

I was only then, when I knew I was alone, at least for the moment, that I reached under my gown into the pocket of my dress. As I pulled out my key from the yellow house, which I'd kept on my bureau since the day Nate left, I traced the shape one last time before folding my hand tightly around it.
Behind me, Cora was calling again. My family was waiting. Looking down at the pond, all I could think was that it is an incredible thing, how a whole world can rise from what seems like nothing at all. I stepped closer to the edge, keeping my eyes on my reflection as I dropped the key into the water, where it landed with a splash. At first, the fish darted away, but as it began to sink they circled back, gathering around. Together, they followed it down, down until it was gone.


Still, there was also was something reassuring about working for Commercial, almost hopeful. Like things that were lost could be found again. As we drove away, I always tried to imagine what it would be like to open your door to find something you had given up on.

We both know the limits of this relationship. It's understood. And as long as we're both comfortablewith that, nobody get's hurt. It's basic.'

My mother has always been the point I calibrated myself against. In knowing where she was, I could always locate myself, as well. These months she'd been gone, I felt like I'd been floating, loose and boundaryless, but now that I knew where she was, I kept waiting for a kind of certainty to kick in. It didn't. Instead, I was more unsure than ever, stuck between this new life and the one I'd left behind.

Whenever something great happens, you're always kind of poised for the universe to correct itself.

You get what you give, but also what you're willing to take.

The night before, I'd offered up my hand. Now, if I held on, there was no telling what it was possible to recieve in return.

"Family," she announced.  "They're the people in your life you don't get to pick.  The ones that are given to you,as opposed to those you get to choose."
"You're bound to them by blood," she continued, her voice flat.  "Which, you know, gives you that much more in common.  Diseases, genetics, hair, and eye color.  It's like they're part of your blueprint.  If something's wrong with you, you can usually trace it back to them."
I nodded and kept writing. "But," she said, "even though you're stuck with them, at the same time, they're also stuck with you.  So that's why they always get the front rows at christenings and funerals.  Because they're the ones that are there, you know, from the beginning to the end.  Like it or not."

"That was the thing about being alone, in theory or in principle. Whatever happened - good, bad, or anywhere in between - it was always, if nothing else, all your own."

There's this other half of him I dont know of, its like he is trying it keep it a secret.... if he would just let me inside so I can help.

Like I, of all people, didn't know better than to lead a total stranger to the point where they could hurt me most, knowing how easily they'd be able to find their way back to it.

"And the rest is history," I said.
"Nah." He shook his head. "The rest is now."

"Don't I know it."

There comes a point when things are undeniable and can't be hidden any longer. Even from yourself.

A lot can change between planning something and actually doing it. But maybe all that really matters is that anything is different at all.

You don't have to make things harder then they have to be just to prove a point.

There was nothing, nothing to depend on. And why was I surprised?

We all have one idea of what the color blue is, but pressed to describe it specifically, there are so many ways: the ocean, lapis lazuli, the sky, someone's eyes. Our definitions are as different as we are ourselves.

The point," Ms. Conyers continued, "is that no word had one specific definition. Maybe in the dictionary, but not in real life.

But sometimes, we just have to be happy with what people can offer us. Even if it's not what we want, at least it's something.

"You know? Conciseness is underrated"

It's never something huge that changes the everything, but instead the tiniest of details, irrevocably tweaking the balance of the universe while you're busy focusing on the big picture.

Obviously it won't all run smoothly. But it's important to acknowledge that while we may make mistakes, in the long run, we may also learn from them.

Once I turned eighteen, I could cut myself off from everyone and finally get what I wanted, which was to be on my own, once and for all.

"For me, family means the silent treatment. At any given moment, someone is always not speaking to someone else."
"Really,' I said
"We're passive-aggressive people," she explained, taking a sip of her coffee. "Silence is our weapon of choice. Right now, for instance, I'm not speaking to two of my sisters and one brother... At mine [my house], silence is golden. And common."

"To me," Reggie said, picking up a bottle of Vitamin A and moving it thoughtfully from one hand to the other, "family is, like, the wellspring of human energy. The place where all life begins."...

Harriet considered this as she took a sip of coffee. "Huh," she said. "I guess when someone else does something worse. Then you need people on your side, so you make up with one person, just as you're getting pissed off at another."
"So it's an endless cycle," I said.
"I guess.' She took another sip. "Coming together, falling apart. Isn't that what families are all about?"

She smiled, pulling the photo a little closer, and I wondered if I should ask her, too, the question for my project, get her definition. But as she ran a finger slowly across the faces, identifying each one, it occurred to me that maybe this was her answer. All those names, strung together like beads on a chain. Coming together, splitting apart, but still and always, a family.

Like it takes so little not only to change something, but to make you forget the way it once was, as well.

More than anyone in that room, I was aware of exactly the sort of person who did such a thing. What I hadn't realized until that very moment, though, was that it wasn't just my mother who was guilty of all these offenses. I'd told myself that everything I'd done in the weeks before and since she left was to make sure I would never be like her. But it was too late. All I had to do was look at the way I'd reacted to what Cora had told me that morning- taking off, getting wasted, letting myself be left alone in a strange place - to know I already was...
Perhaps I was just like my mother. But looking up at Cora's hand, I had to wonder whether it was possible that this wasn't already decided for me, and if maybe, just maybe, this wasn't already decided for me, and if maybe, just maybe, this was my one last chance to try and prove it. There was no way to know. There never is. But I reached out and took it anyway.

It was like those songs I'd heard as a child, each so familiar, and all mine. When I got older and realized the words were sad, the stories tragic, it didn't make me love them any less. By then they were already part of me, woven into my consciousness memory.

You have to admit, it's kind of impressive.... Total commitment. You know, the idea of discovering something that, for all intents and purposes, goes against your abilities, and yet still deciding to do it anyway. That takes guts, you know?

Clearly, sharing something could take you a long way, or at least to a different place than you'd planned. Like a friendship or a family, or even just alone on a curb on a Saturday, trying to get your bearings as best you can. Maybe my sister and I shared more than we thought. We were both waiting and wishing for something we couldn't completely control: I wanted to be alone, and she the total opposite. It was weird, really, to have something so contrary in common. But at least it was something.

Sitting there with them, it was almost hard to remember when I first came to Perkins, so determined to remember to be a one-woman operation to the end. But that was the thing about taking help and giving it, or so I was learning; there was no such thing as really getting even. Instead, this connection, once opened, remained ongoing over time.

After all with me and Marshall, it had never been about words or conversation, where there was too much to be risked or lost. Here, though, in the quiet pressed against each other, this felt familiar to me. And it was nice to let someone get close again, even if it was just for a little while.

I couldn't imagine what it would be like to be one of so many, to have not just parents and siblings but cousins and aunts and uncles, an entire tribe to claim as your own.  Maybe you would feel lost in the crowd.  Or sheltered by it.  Whatever the case, one things was for sure: like it or not, you'd never be alone.

I was just stock in the middle, vague and undefined. It wasn't like I was some expert on the meaning of being supportive. Was it being loyal even against your better judgement? Or, like Olivia, was it making your displeasure known from the start, even when someone didn't want to hear it?

"You want me to give her a key?" the guy asked.
"I want you to give her a possibility," she told him, looking at my necklace again. "And that's what a key represents. An open door, a chance. You know?"

It wasn't so much that I was positive.  I just wasn't fully subscribing to such a negative way of thinking anymore.

How ballsy it was to just assume you know, with one glance, the things another person could live without.  As if it was the same for everyone, that simple.

Don't trust the natives, Olivia has told me, but I was already a step ahead of her.  I didn't trust anyone.  Not for directions, not for rides, and not for advice either.  Sure it sucked to be lost, but I'd long ago realized I preferred it to depending on anyone else to get me where I needed to go.

"You know," I said to him. "Pining isn't attractive. On anyone. ... The worst thing you can do if you miss or need someone is let them know it."

Later, though, I wished I had spoken up, or at least tried to explain that once I knew Cora better than anyone. But that was a long time ago, back when she wasn't trying to save the whole world. Only me.

There were so many times during those years, though, as we moved from one house to another, that I would find myself thinking about my sister. Usually it was late at night, when I couldn't sleep, and I'd try to picture her in her dorm room forty-odd miles and a world away. I wondered if she was happy, what it was like out there. And if maybe, just maybe, she ever thought of me.

Was it really this easy, once you escaped, to just not care?

But it was important to simply be sought, even if you didn't ever want to be found.

But accepting help doesn't have to mean giving up control.

I just stood there, looking at her. My head was spinning, my mouth dry, and all I could think about was that I wanted to go someplace safe, someplace I could be alone and okay, and that this was impossible. My old life had changed and my new one was still in progress, altering by the second.

Sure, there was no guarantee any of these things would actually happen as he envisioned. But maybe that wasn't the point. It was the planning that counted, whether it ever came to fruition or not.

There was something striking about a single key. It was like a question waiting to be answered, a whole missing a half. Useless on its own, needing something else to be truly defined.

Sometimes. It was a good escape. Until, you know, it wasn't.

You just had to know where to look.

There were so many levels to the unknown, from safe to dangerous to outright nebulous, scariest of all.

Maybe I'd just figured out there were some things you were better off not knowing

But the original was there as well - more jaded and rudimentary, functional rather than romantic. It fit not just the yellow house but another door, deep within my own heart. One that had been locked so tight for so long that I was afraid to even try it for fear of what might be on the other side

If this was my instinct talking, I didn't want to hear what it was saying.

How do you even begin to return to someone, much less convince them to do the same for you? I had no idea. More than ever, though, right then I had to believe the answer would just come to me.

"Even if you do make tons of new friends," I told him, "try not to forget where you came from, okay?"  

I hoped this was true. Even if it wasn't, all I could do was hand over what I could, with the hope of something in return. But of course, this was easier said than done.

If nothing else, now we knew where to find each other, even if only time would tell if either of us would ever come looking.