Hope For Sale

Though small, the key was heavy and intricate, almost needlessly ornate. Its tangle of curlicues wrapped and twisted like overgrown brambles.

“Are you sure this is the one?” she asked, turning the key in her hand doubtfully.

“Without a doubt,” the merchant said cheerily. “The key to the heart!”

“To any heart?”

“Perhaps not quite any,” the merchant conceded. “But most, by far.”

She remained unconvinced. “But how would I know?”

“The same way we know anything, my dear,” he laughed. “By trying, and trying again. It will not be long before you find its proper match. It is always nearer than you think.”

She was not quite sure that she believed him. But neither did she wish to leave empty handed. Not when there was hope for sale.

***

Trying proved to be a messy, uncertain process. True, the key fit many a heart. But so far those hearts seemed hollow, more show than substance. She tried each time to imagine she had found her treasure, only to leave with her regrets and that heavy key back in hand.

But worse were the hearts it didn’t fit. The hearts broken and bloodied by trying too hard. She stepped away from another still-writhing body and regretted the blood-stained key that had caused so much pain.

After a time, she stopped trying. She washed the blood from the key’s ornate tangles, polished it as best she could, hoping the merchant might yet buy it back. But she returned to the market only to learn that he had long since disappeared.

***

She wore the key around her neck, not knowing what else to do with it. Not ready to try, but not ready to part with the hope.

She pondered the hearts she had known. The empty disappointments. The broken, bloodied mysteries. What had she hoped to find there? What was it she was missing?

How strange to realize that she did not know. Did she even know the state of her own heart? Could she? Did she have the courage to find out?

Her hands shook as she took the key from around her neck. Looking in the mirror, she traced her fingers down from her clavicle, saw her own locked heart. She thought of the empty many. She thought of the bloodied few. Which was she?

The pain was worse than she could have imagined. Though small, the key cut deep. For a moment, she wondered if knowing was worth the pain. But even in the pain, she felt the contact, the release. She felt her heart opening.

She looked down to see herself, wide and empty and aching. But at last, she knew. She knew that she was empty. And she knew that there was hope. With that heavy key, she could begin to fill the emptiness herself.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison