I turn left into my driveway to find my garage door still down. Perplexed, I squeeze the opener on my visor again. Did I not do that the first time? Do I leave the condo so infrequently that it isn't muscle memory anymore? Slow down for the curve, look for the kids playing, raise my hand to the opener, turn left and pull in? The door still doesn't budge. A bit relieved knowing that muscle memory is there, I have called this place home long enough, I try again. Nothing. Uh. Okay. So the front door it is.
I pull the keys from my ignition and make it halfway up the path before I realize, oh. I don't have a key for the deadbolt on the front door. Not that I don't have one on me, I just don't have one period. And the chain is still locked into place from the inside. This is what happens after 7 years living in Brooklyn. Or more precisely, this is what happens when your Brooklyn apartment gets broken into on a Saturday morning while you're in it. But that's a story for another day. For now, I have three locks I have to get through and only one key. And a broken garage door, apparently.
I find myself standing in the rain with a hand full of keys and yet still not enough keys.
I text her while I wait in the car for help. I want to laugh about this, I'll laugh about it someday, but today-- today, all I can think about is his statement that the pandemic made him reprioritize his life. And he did. He's onscreen from California, and then I'm lost in my memories of the Pacific Coast Highway, the Pacific Ocean to my left, blue water bouncing the sunlight. She texts back and asks for updates and all I can manage is "mundane and overwhelming at the same time." The word mundane scrambles for me. Mundane... the sacred and the mundane? I reach for a phrase I haven't used in years, maybe a decade, Eliade's. No, it isn't the sacred and the mundane. It's the sacred and the profane. Instantly, I think: None of this is sacred.
None of this is sacred.
The sacred orients. This, I know.
When the lockout person arrives, I explain. I explain the deadbolt and the chain. "But how did you get out, if the chain is still locked?" I explain about the garage door. I explain often lately. I explain assignments, I explain technology, I explain insomnia, I explain my expired in-transit tags, I explain my shivering shoulders, I explain the faded rectangle on the floor under my dining table. I called someone last week, and when he picked up the phone, I started to explain who I am. He stopped me, mid-sentence. "Whenever you call, you tell me who you are. You don't have to do that. I know who you are, I know who you are." I know him too, but it still stuns me: to be known, not to have to explain.
When I am finally into my condo, I turn on all the lights and turn up the heat. I put on my warmest socks and warm up my hot chocolate from 5 hours prior. I watch the paper cup spin in the microwave and think: if I burn the cup, no one will know but me. Is this the sacred or is this the profane? I pull out my phone and scroll to the old Dutch house saved on my Zillow account in Hudson, NY, nestled in the rolling farmland, with a view of the Catskills in the distance, standing watch. I'm not exactly sure how to explain that. Except maybe it's the sacred. Or at least, a reminder.
