Key

I keep a key around my neck. Ha ha ha, people say, what does that open. My grandfather's chest, I tell them. He had it with him during The War. In it he kept books, photographs, tobacco. It's covered in scratches and taped-on postcards, and the hinges defy rust. It held his life and, in a way, was his life, and when he died he left it to me. He said to open it when I feel ready. How am I supposed to know something like that? What if I find nothing, or too much? Why did he stop so short on guidance? Is he really gone if I never open the chest? So I keep this key with me, I say, on a chain around my neck. And this story makes everyone so much happier than if I informed them I found it in a friend's yard.