To the right of the Dove Men+Care deodorant sits a silver skeleton key about three inches long. It has three teeth on one end and a spiral, corkscrew-like handle on the opposite end. Etched into its slender, flat center are three letters: MRC. My mother’s initials. Millie Renee Cutter.
God bless Millie’s soul now that she’s been deceased for the last four years; a victim of lung cancer, which was due to the three packs of Camels she used to smoke a day. I’ve forgotten about Millie these days, as well as the key, which belonged to her. The key slides into a brass box the size of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
The Boy Box—this is what I call it—sits on the top shelf inside my bedroom’s single closet, which I pull down—my evening cocktail forgotten and left behind in the bathroom—and open wit
