Mama has a key, and the least she could've done, if she wasn't comin' back, would've been to leave it for us. And then I remember: the old hollow hickory, the one a few hundred feet past the clearin'. I'm eight years old, watchin' Mama slide a sweaty white string off her neck with a brass key danglin' from it, glintin' in the sunlight.
"This is our spare, and if you ever need it, it'll be right here in the tree. See?"
She places it into the hollow, where it disappears like a magic trick.
I feel safer, somehow, knowin' the key is there.
If I ever need it, if Ness and I come back, it'll be there waitin' for us.
Research shows that 90% of Americans value public libraries(Dec 11 2013) According to a survey by the Pew Research Center, about 90% of Americans aged 16 and older said that the closing of their local public library would have an...