I broke down the last moving box today. It had been sitting in my garage for three years.
That box belonged to my friend Carol, who moved to Oregon. She left me her spare key under the terra cotta pot by the back door.
I never used it. But today, after flattening the box, I walked over to her old house.
The key was still there, rusted a little. It turned the lock on the first try.
Inside, dust and silence. But the spider plant by the kitchen window was still alive, leaning toward the light.
The suitcase with the airport luggage tag was in the hall closet. The tag said PDX in faded blue ink.
I watered the spider plant from the tap. The water ran clear after a few seconds.
I locked up and put the key back under the pot. It still works. So does the plant.
Some things just keep going, even when you think they've stopped.