Everyone has a cupboard or drawer that holds treasures. Insignificant bits of our lives gathered to remind us we tend to be misers of inconsequential, but just the same, important parts of our life from any given time. Occasionally, tucked in the back corner, under neath all that is sacred, we find the one lost thing with so much importance and power it may render us speechless with anticipation.
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The drawer gaped open. String, mismatched shoe laces, and pens long dry and useless. Among the menagerie, a key poked out from the wall’s edge. His heart pounded like the rhythm of a horse at full gallop. The key to the diary pages of Gran’s story, the lost things of her memory.
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