Dad, meanwhile,
settled into a chair beside me and had already forgotten the whole thing.
Or he looked as if he had.
He reached into his pocket and took out a small, worn object, and turned it over in his fingers.
I had seen it all my life.
It was an old silver keychain, shaped like a tiny pair of airplane wings.
The silver had lost its shine long ago, and a number was engraved on the back, so faded that I’d never once been able to read it.
As a little girl, I’d asked him where he’d gotten it.
“An old keepsake,” he’d said, and changed the subject.
But that morning, watching him roll it between his thumb and forefinger, something made me ask again.
“You still carry that thing everywhere?”
Dad glanced at me and smiled.
“Just about.”
“Why? It must be decades old.”
