The other morning I drove to the post office. More limber neighbors walk the route, and Benjamin likes to as well. It is less about the letters and more about the jar of chocolate kisses on the post lady's counter. He lets her know whether her candy choices please him. 

 

When I climbed back in the car I poked the key in the ignition. It refused to turn. I wiggled the steering wheel. I pressed on the brake. Sometimes those small tweaks have met with success, but not this time. It didn't sputter with a lack of juice like when the battery ran dry. The key didn't even get far enough to fail. 

 

I was in a safe place, Close enough to walk home, in fact. Not in a particular hurry, nor was the weather biting. But I did want the car to start. 

 

Then I noticed something. Or rather the lack of something. The key ring had no post office key attached. It was not actually the key to this car. I dug into my pocket to retrieve the other set. Easily the ignition growled awake and I slid the gear into reverse. I was on my way home. 

 

There are days when I try the wrong key to get where I want to go. Complaining to someone I love about how we don't spend time together, for example. Keeping a tally of ways I have been slighted, to make myself feel better, for another. Avoiding the tasks I need to do, because they are annoying does nothing to rejuvenate me. 

 

The merciful thing is, there is another set of keys in my pocket.