After she died, I had almost thrown it away.
Instead I had put the entire tin in a cardboard box marked MOM.
It was in the closet beneath my winter boots.
“I might have it.”
Harlan looked at me.
“You’re serious?”
“I think so.”
We did not call a locksmith.
I went home.
For twenty minutes I tore through the closet.
Tasha, who had arrived midway through the search, stood in the hallway eating cereal straight from the box.
“What are we looking for?”
“A sewing tin.”
“Red?”
I stopped.
“Yes.”
“It’s under your bed.”
“How do you know?”
“You made me help move your mattress last summer.”
I dropped to my knees.
There it was.
Inside, beneath spools of thread and mismatched buttons, lay the key.
Small.
Brass.
A stamped letter M on one side.
Tasha stopped chewing.
“Well.”
I picked it up.
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come with you?”
