Keys, Fridge, Wednesday

Wednesday morning. Coffee not yet finished. I opened the fridge to get the oat milk and my keys were sitting behind the leftover pasta container, on the second shelf, as if they had always lived there.

I stood there for probably ten seconds before I picked them up. I do not remember putting them there. I have a clear memory of coming home after Tuesday's climbing session, shoes off, bag down, the usual, and after that the keys are simply gone from the narrative until this morning when the fridge helpfully returned them. I have not ruled out that I put the pasta away and the keys just came along for the ride. I have also not ruled out other explanations.

The funny thing is the prints are still leaning against the kitchen wall, which I have written about exactly once and which I have otherwise been completely comfortable ignoring. The keys were missing for maybe fourteen hours. The prints have been there for weeks. Some things you notice immediately and some things you walk past every day and call it patience.

The scene of the crime.

I clipped the keys to my belt loop and stood at the counter and waited for the coffee and looked at the windowsill, cord, card, photographs, Carol's small object, the morning light doing its September thing, and the day started normally after that. Gerald put out another leaf last month and I keep meaning to write about it and I keep not writing about it. Some mornings the fridge does the most interesting thing that happens and that's that.

Acceptance.