She held a lot of keys and as she shuffled through them all, she recanted every story that each one had held. Every narrative as unique and bold as the previous. She told me about the key to staying young, the key to success and even the key to a happy life. Explaining that there was no such thing as a skeleton key as each one is unique and therefore deserved their own story.
She explained that keys were incredibly important because they not only open doors, but close them as well.
She flaunted as she told me about her first love than flip to the next and graciously recanted the troubled students she had taught and how she had learned more from them, than them from her. She flipped to the next and told me about her stories as a little girl and how her family would spend her adolescence summers at the lake. Flipping to the next, she confessed about the time her senior class hired a mariachi band to follow there principal around for the day. She continued to flip through each key nonchalantly until she landed on a key which triggered some hesitation. This wavering had caught my attention as she had previously came across as unashamed and partaking. It suddenly became clear that this wasn’t her stalling, but a reflection. I continued to remain patient as she gathered some words and looked at me.
“Never put the key to your happiness in somebody else’s pocket… Are you truly happy? Do you even know what it means to be happy and what it takes to achieve happiness?”
There was another pause in conversation though I knew that she was not seeking an answer from me, so I remained silent and listened. She continued.
“If people want to be happy, than these are the questions they must ask themselves.”
It was obvious that her life was not lived in vein. She continued with confessions of adventure, rebellion, failures and triumphs. Before I left, I asked her if I may take a photo of her, for these are my stories, my diaries and my keys.
