I remember the day I picked up the keys to my flat. I wrote about that first day here, in a post that’s well, just funny now, looking back on it. I was so excited. And convinced I’d just overcome my poor admin skills! Ha!
It’s also sweet to note how Sammy was with me on that first day in a strange and symmetrical way, long before being with me here, at the end.
Goodness. I held those keys so tightly on my way out of that estate agency. It felt like walking on air that cold December day. My keys. My flat. My home. A miracle in the making. 2,447 days ago.
I’ve been pondering though: were they ever really mine?
What I mean is, tomorrow I’m giving those same keys back to an estate agent for someone else to hold. Perhaps the new owners will come out feeling lighter than air too, giddy at the thought of their first home. So in the context of history, I mean if you were looking at those keys as objects from outside of time, it begs the question: whose keys actually are they? Whose flat is it?
I appreciate that it is late and I am tired. Plus I banged my head a couple of times today so there’s every chance I’m talking rot again. But if true, then perhaps it means that we, humans who are scintillating flashes of light in a long and dark universe, simply never own anything at all. Perhaps it means that everything we think is ours was only loaned to us for a period of time, in the hope that we’d look after it. After all, you can’t take any of it with you.
Well. That aside, today was fantastic in the end. Everyone pulled together, morning, noon and night, and, even though we’re totally shattered, we’re so pleased that we’ve pretty much got it done, ready, as all good stewards are to pass on the keys to the next holders.
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