A pair of keys fell out of a workpants pocket on Friday. I don’t...

A pair of keys fell out of a workpants pocket on Friday. I don’t know what doors they open. People give us keys when we work for them. People give us keys so we can let ourselves in, arms loaded with tools, and lock up when we leave. I forget to return them and my collection is growing. One opens a bulkhead in Arlington. Another gets me into the front hall of a triple decker. A backdoor in Lexington. A frontdoor in Cambridge. All this access, all this trust. Even if I don’t know which key goes with which door, having this collection is a little like having a secret power — I could, if I wanted to, sneak back in like the shoemaker’s elves, like the tooth fairy.

When I dig to the bottom of my top drawer, in corners underneath underwear and socks, I find more keys, ones that belonged to me, that opened doors to old places, other apartments I’ve lived, apartments of old romances. I don’t know which ones open which doors, and I’m not sure why I keep them. Maybe it’s something to do with having access to old selves, of being able, if I wanted, to sneak back to some long-gone bedroom of my past and dance around to the songs I danced around to then.

Keys as openers of time travel treasure chests. Keys as unlockers of old doors in the memory halls of the mind. Keys as ways to get inside a house in Somerville to build a new wall in a basement for a closet taking shape.