I opened my purse.
Bank cards.
Identification.
Retirement documents.
Medication list.
Social Security papers.
Everything important was still with me.
Then I found my house keys.
There were four.
Front door.
Side entrance.
Garage.
Basement.
Attached to them was a small rubber astronaut Noah had given me after a school field trip.
“Grandma,” he had said, “this way you won’t lose your keys.”
I removed the astronaut.
Put it safely into my purse.
Then placed the keys on Ruth’s kitchen table.
I stared at them.
“I don’t want these anymore.”
Ruth picked them up.
“Trash?”
I nodded.
She dropped them into the garbage beneath the sink.
I expected to feel grief.
Instead, I felt lighter.
The next morning, I woke at 8:40.
That alone felt revolutionary.
Normally, by 8:40, I would already have made breakfast, packed Noah’s bag, washed dishes, walked the dog, stripped two beds, and started laundry.
