The Digger and the Key

As I scooch my rear end sideways to dig more dandelions near the Japanese barberry, sharp metal pokes my rear pocket. I reverse quickly, lift the sedum leaves, and see the rusted prongs of last summer’s dandelion digger.

When my digger vanished, I retraced my steps once, then after five minutes shrugged. “Oh, well. . .”

I bought a longer-handled digger, and got better leverage against tenacious roots.

Until this moment, I had forgotten last year’s loss.

Not so my car key.

As I uproot a piece of crabgrass, I lament the car key again.

When it vanished this winter, I wandered the house like a lost puppy, sniffing under the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of life. I wedged my paws into upholstered cracks in house and car.

I hunted and whimpered without success. Then I repeated the process.

Multiple times.

For days.

A new electronic key costs more than a garden tool. But, in fact, the key loss cost me nothing. Honda had graciously provided three with the purchase, two of them electronic.

I am not keyless, but I still mourn. Whenever I open a cluttered drawer or vacuum the car carpet, I still watch and wait and wish.

I also lost the fused-glass key ring, yes. But I could easily replace it a fraction of what my new digger cost.

I don’t want to, though. The key fits more easily into my purse without a ring.

I give myself a shake and return to the moment.

The sun is bright. The breeze is cool. Life is good.

And, then, it is time to leave.

Re-entering the house, I put the clippers on the garage shelf remembering my calm when they disappeared a day this spring. I remember, too, a more frantic search—for a phone bill.

I realize, somehow, I breathe more deeply out of doors than in: my daily trip to the garden is a sacred rhythm.

As I step through the doorway, I long for the summer day I will be whole—and indoors or out—able to carry sun and breeze and garden in my heart