A grandfather’s clock in the foyer played the chimes of Westminster.
A treasure my mother had long saved to buy.
The clock kept my brother awake but soothed the grandchildren to sleep.
Every Sunday, after church, my dad would don white gloves to lift the brass weights.
The gloves, from his dress Navy whites, were a reminder of airplanes and old wars.
The clock ticked the heartbeat of the house.
Until one day, the key disappeared from its perch above the clock.
The house was turned over in search of it.
All the grandchildren were properly interrogated.
There was no clear culprit or cause.
Unfazed, my crafty father machined another key.
We marveled at the replacement, his skill, and the missing key.
The clock ticked, the years ticked, and every now and then, my mother would ask,
“I wondered what happened to that key?”
The grandchildren grew up, and my parents passed away.
My grandson, who loved his grandparents, asked to have the clock.
Everyone shrugged and said, “OK.”
He carefully moved it to my house, where it remains until he has a home of his own.
Now, my husband and I are clearing out our things - boxes, dressers, and crates.
I pulled out my son’s pirate treasure chest, worn and cracked, from his closet.
I struggled with whether it should go or stay.
Inside were treasure feathers, silver dollars, Boy Scout pins, and old military medals.
Sentimentally, I ran my hand across the red felt lining and pined for long-ago days.
My fingers stumbled at the lump under a loose corner.
It was, of course,
The lost key.
I tucked it back, put the chest on the shelf,
And I have now disowned my son.
.
…I mean angels 
…coming and going from the house at any given time. That was truly the best of times.