The Keys
written by: Leslie Cairns
I’ve lived nowhere and everywhere at the same time. NYC, Denver, Buffalo. I wonder which home is for me? Also, lost reader: how do you untangle a knot? The one that unlocks your keys, the knot on your favorite dress.
Step 1. Spread it out. I’ve been away from [her] for two years. Spread the knot out on the surface, looking for the parts that broke in the wrong place. You’ve started.
The winter hasn’t started yet here, but the crisp air makes me pull my scarf a little, still intact, and not yet frayed, towards myself.
I can’t wait to see my room, the place I’ll rest my head without a departure date. I signed a two-year lease. No roommates, no abuse, just me. This day, December 21st, however, is the first time I’ve lived alone– I open the door and see nothing but openness. White walls that I can fill with anything I want, which I know I’m going to put coffee colored frames around–
Step 2. Untying a knot requires staring at the knot for a while and loosening it up. Asking for some time to soften. Praying to it like a plant, asking it to forgive you for all you’ve bent, the time you’ve left it–
The snow settles on my scarf, slowly and surely, and I loosen, loosen the words away from me: you’re not good enough, you’ll wilt, you won’t make it out here. No longer true, I say into the knot, until it coughs up water and breathes again.
Step 3 of untying a knot is simple. Step 3. You soak in water, almost drowning. You think of all the ways people put you down, the hoops you jumped (hospital, to mother kicking me out, to faulty finances, to scraping through college and a master’s degree with hope and bulimia. A pretty word for a disease that will kill your ribcage, bleat by bleat). & so you replay all these images (the raking fingers, the shaky way you breathed after a purge, the way chips scare you now, but you walk the aisles when you’re lonely. Doritos, Fritos, and Lays are brought to parties you’re barely invited to, and they shrug and say thanks. Not knowing how much time it took you). You soak in the memories until you almost drown, and then you wait for it to untangle itself.
As I think too hard, I look over and see someone walking up the stairs with a heavy box.
“Is this your place?” He asks, smiling.
“It IS!” I say, for the first time ever. I don’t care if I sound naive, young, too fast, and energetic. Like I’ve had three lattes in a row. I can see the balcony, encroaching towards the top. A king from a throne, watching me unspool, for a moment.
Step 4 of untying a knot is a blizzard, a wish, a guilt-sodden want. Let everything thaw. Let everything fall apart. You twist and pull the loose ends with your fingers until you see blisters like the rosy cheeks of winter. You marvel – an outsider– but still begin to watch the snow fall (I don’t know how to apply for an apartment, I’m not good enough, racing through my head, the owl mocking me at night in my rented room, saying stay in the spare– stay here. His soothing coos consistently and raucously remind me to stay where it’s safe. To stay where my mother soothed me. No longer unhoused or in a room for rent. The mean girl thoughts try one more time: Don’t dream big. You have no credit. You can’t live in an apartment, you’re a failure, you have an eating disorder, you count skeletons for fun– you’re insane,
You’ll never make it.
Finally, you don’t have to listen to it.
You just let all of those fall; They’re icicle shards you no longer need, and you thaw. And I’m telling you: when you think you’ve thawed, you thaw three times over again. The apartment complex finally calls you back, a friend is your cosigner, he believes in you–
They say to you: “You’re in building F.” F for fun and frolicking and friendships that never fray and –
This apartment is the first time without roommates or anything else. On a whim, I impulsively adopted Griffin on the very first, slate-grey, day. He is scared in the entrance of PetSmart when I do a meet and greet with him. I’ve never seen a dog run into a sign like that, balk from the owner. The only dog I ever met that ran into a sign from nerves, and forgot to take a treat from my hand because he was so worried.
So, I ask you, reader: is independence adopting a formerly unliked dog? Is it holding the displaced looking, metallic keys in my hand, remembering when I used to run in Buffalo, alone? Buffalo, a savage city, but a kind one. (You only know if you’ve lived there). Where they’ll give you an extra slice of pizza, slicked with ricotta. Or, a deal on a cozy home. But the winters alone make you feel like your heart is beating totally alone in the world, if you don’t have anyone to call family.
Until the keys chafed my hands. Remembering now I have my own fireplace. And I can watch the snow fall on my own this time. Or, is it falling in love with whomever I want to be? (exposition)
Griffin, my new dog: an almost brother, a furry friendship always, the first time I got to choose my own family. I bought snacks I liked for once. I felt like I was putty, to be molded any way that I wanted to be. (literary element) simile
No more sticky surfaces, told I’m not cleaning well enough. No more kids saying that it’s my fault, because I’m not really a part of the throng. No more chore lists for only one sibling. I’ll miss the ceilings, though, trees on rooftops, but not the constriction in my throat, wondering what to say next.
I lugged up my suitcases. I hesitantly called my Dad. I was nervous, excited, lost. “Dad, I’m here!” I said. “I’ll send you pictures later.” He was gone during the important years. He’s here now.
I remember how my Mom said I’d never be anybody. I’ve grown up from that remark, but the way I had to follow rules a certain way, keep my suitcases packed (just in case). Never once have I had to make a house a home. I’m nervous, excited, lost.
Now, the Denver golf course is nearby, the Platte River hums for me to walk to later, and the thought-provoking sunsets that make you want to take a picture. For a second, I want to get mad at all the white men, semi-retired by choice, who are just swinging putts from day to day. Watching white, slicked, balls fly. The same thing over and over.
Jealous that they fail upward with each upward swing of the ball. Allowed to leave at 2, when my mom would kick me out for not being a lady, for much less. But that is over now. I’m a fold-up ballerina, unfolding in my music box, now inside-out.
Griff whines behind me, and I decide to open the door.
He bounds in. We have an air mattress that I plop into the living room for now. I have a fan, a coffee maker, and some laundry. It’s not beautiful yet, but it’s a home. Right there, do you see? My fingernails touched the counter. I’ll always have been there.
Griffin, my new dog, plops onto the air mattress, and despite its delicate and precarious nature, it stays afloat. We both sit there. I look up at the walls, wishing there were a ceiling fan. Pretending the breeze from the beach was slamming onto our faces. But at least, here in this dry, aired space without circulating air, we’re both liking each other. It’s a step. We’re free.
I took my picture of a rainbow dove from my last apartment. The one with the door we were fined for, the peanut Thai noodles I used to make for everybody but myself. Now, I put it crookedly on the wall, then fix it. I put on light music, and I watch the sunlight take hold of my hair and change it. I watch Griff wagging his tail, and everything is silent around us. The enormity of the flailing and the sitting and the moving hits me.
I start crying, flicking away my tears like unused paint. I want to preserve this moment: my hair in a braid, my motorcycle cobalt knit jacket around my shoulders, a dog panting for being rescued from a place he’s already forgetting. I’m now a helper, helping myself for a change.
“Come on, boy, let’s go for a walk,” I say. I need out of this place I’m staying.
We have hours before we have to sleep. Even with just a fake candle and my air mattress as the only furniture, I decided we’re going to watch movies I like & eat DOTS until we feel like dreaming something sweet.
I ruffle his ears, and I hope he likes to walk when the air is crisp like apples and to see the houses that seem calm on the outside, but you never know what’s underneath. And then come back to our house, and snuggle under blankets, and take a break from everything.
We walk out the door, and I lock it with my keys, grinning feverishly.
Step 5. You watch the knot come out. You’re a kid again, putting wishsticks in the stream, watching them float even though you feel so small. Now, the string takes shape to what it was: fluid, deciding what & how it wants to be used; who it wants to be.
& so, the silence is all I wanted in a home. A way to breathe. To uncurl. Independence is being able to get off the train wherever you want. No more hiding/running/wishing/wanting. Home is a place I collided my thoughts into, saved 2000 dollars to get to, a place across the country–
A place to figure out who I am (and what was missing). When you see me frozen in time, the braid falling out a little bit, the empty cabinets waiting for normal things like pasta, and the fridge waiting for soda and cheese, did you think, all at once–
Even though I’ll have to walk my dog every day. I’ll have to pay a hundred-dollar utility bill, instead of Starbucks/lattes galore/used bookstores. I’ll need to talk to apartment managers, which I’ve never done. I’ll have to decide who can come and go in my apartment… what if I get a cat as well? The pressure underneath (the crack in the crying blue, ice), the bleating wish, the wondering if I can
stay
For a while.
& thaw, with you.
I wonder who she could be, if I stayed for awhile?
- The Keys - January 18, 2026
- Cat’s Cradle Weaving - January 31, 2023
