I've been doing a bit of spring cleaning today and stumbled across a set of keys: my Erica's keys, though she left this particular apartment almost a year ago now.
It's got me to thinking about our years of friendship, all those moments stacking up and now spread across a thousand miles.
Now I write her sentimental postcards about childhood Sundays in Paris and she writes me quirky postcards about flesh-eating viruses and getting published (published!) and long, sad emails about heartache I'm not there to fix.
I think it's my turn. It's probably been my turn for awhile.
And probably it's time to lose the keys, however much my overly-sentimental heart cries to let them go.