I knelt on the rug and took the little brass key out of my skirt pocket, the one I’d pulled out of the toe of her black pump on Friday night.

The brass lock on the front of the chest was shaped like an old shield, dull and darkened from decades of handling.

Mama had kept that chest locked tight for fifty years, telling me it only held winter blankets and spare linen sheets from her aunt in Sherman.

I lifted two stacks of old paperbacks off the cedar lid and set them on the floor.

I fit the little brass key into the lock shield and turned my wrist to the right.