The old key

I lost an old key.

...The key to a wooden chest that knows many things. Big things. Things that can make distant worlds appear before my very eyes. Most are magical; they can lift me to the skies. A few are a somewhat melancholy but always with wee bits of rosy sparks by their edges.…

Oh, a tiny pouch that once belonged to a bear with a band of silver hearts is in there. A scrawny note. Long letters. Some folded funny things. Stamps. Ribbons. Rose petals. Two big hearts…

Every single thing in that chest is a piece of awe. Once in there, it does not lose its sweet, fresh smell. Whenever opened, lovely chimes even hum a tune, lulled by a soft breeze that would gently blow.

My special wooden chest is indestructible and heeds only to that one key. So unlike any other...

Yet, for all its magic, only the past can reveal itself in an endless shuffle. It cannot see the future. Nothing spills a premonition.

A big flood came to my charming, modest land, one awful day. In a glimpse, we were all washed ashore. A bit broken here and there but all in one piece. More than enough to be thankful for.

Little else was left of what has been though. It was a hapless sight.

But hope sprung like wings on my feet when the special wooden chest appeared. To which I thought, “There are so many magical things in there… they can save us amidst this sad affair.”

But another tragedy came in the heels. Despite its nifty place close to heart, I lost the key. And as tragedies come in three’s, notions of what life is slowly faded… I simply plunged in misery.

And so, a search that spanned many seas was immediately set in pace. My beautiful friends with their delicate wings, bright halos and sparkly wands joined in great haste.

Deep prayers. Incantations. Spells. All that in vain.

The key was swept into the ocean’s deepest trench. It is a place where even a faint glow of hope has no chance of thriving. Or was it deliberately tossed in there by some green-eyed little creatures, which, in their tiny, obscure and hollow existence, everything is just pure mischief?

The world’s grief is their recreation.

The greatest shaman can only do miracles where miracles are supposed to work, I was told.

It took a million years for a stubborn thing called “acceptance” to snuggle in my old, weary heart. My special wooden chest had been locked forever. That is the truth.

Nowadays, a little smile has come to my lips nudged by a little sunny thought. A new chest will, one day, beckon to a special song. Maybe it will come in colors of glee. One can never tell. I’ll be patient for that one pretty mystery.

But this time, I’ll make sure it does not come with lock and key.

For what is a treasure when it is not shared? In a sad twist of fate everything can be forgotten. Nothing spared. And in this world of ours where virtues are dared, odd events, indeed, cannot be rare.

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