To you, Sitting by the window, I ran my fingers over an old key. There's a place worn smooth where the thumb presses. Which lock it fit, since when it's been with me, I can't quite remember now. Only the weight familiar to my hand remains. On the news today I heard the name of your hometown. When that familiar place name came through, I suddenly recalled some memory that, like this key, had worn away without my noticing. I can't explain what it was, but the old key still points toward that place.