keys

the first year of my new life.

i drift,

sort of.

in reality, life

cannot be told in years.

there are always wonderful days,

there are always horrible days,

and most days are just

okay.

with this, i drift.

so

my father gives me his new spare key.

my mother givers me the second key to the mail box,

and i pretend:

the jangle of keys in my pocket is not

the sound of my life

falling apart.