I bought a $13 enamel keychain when I lived off of tips and came home smelling like eggs and toilet cleaner. A time when each frivolous iced latte sank like a stone in my gut.
“KEYS TO MY DREAM HOME,” the keychain says, full of coy confidence. I was living at my parents’ house when I bought it, knowing I was moving into a shoebox on the 9th floor. I rubbed my finger over the lettering, and could only smirk at the irony when Mo Bamba pounded through the ceiling most nights. But I had keys. Real keys.
The keychain is green, my favorite color. I only realized green was my favorite color after moving into a new place with my two best friends. We would drink glass bottles of sickly-sweet wine coolers and critique each other’s twerking abilities even though none of us were any good. Nursing mild hangovers, we would make our pilgrimage to get coffee, and one day, with my window rolled down, I noticed the trees were so, so green.
There’s a little cottage on the keychain, a tiny little thing for a DREAM HOME. I moved to a big city several states over and ended up missing Midwest goodbyes and that one casserole that I thought I hated. I started dreaming about dinner parties and belly laughs with old friends. The tiny, little things.
If I tried to conjure up my dream home, I might start saying things about a spiral staircase, big bookshelves, and a breakfast nook, but that’s not true. Every home I’ve lived in has been a DREAM HOME.
The keychain is a whispered promise to myself that I am exactly where I am meant to be.
This was written by our contributing writer, Kiersten Hardy.
Image Source: Pexels, Phil Hearing
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