St. Patrick’s day is a suck of an anniversary for us. In 2003 we came home from work, had a light dinner, and tried to figure out where I’d left my digital camera. Two hours later we were relaying a list of stolen items to a friendly police officer, and pondering yet another cog in the orchestration of our flight back East-ward. Two years later we ignore the fact, I pocket my digicam — somedays almost wishing it would disappear so I could have an excuse to get a new one — and fly south-ward.
Steve is tending a quiet show-home and he’s even more talkative than normal. We end up discussing the nuances of contractual labour and the advantages of the housing market in Alberta over British Columbia. And he hands us the first key to our house.
It’s little square-ish, gold-coloured strip of metal: typical, with the regular jagged edges. I’ve gotten used to the microchipped car keys, smart cards, or three-dimensional, security hyper-keys. This is just a plain, brass key.
A loaner. But our house, it seems, is now locked.
We take pictures, of course, sneaking around in that space between daylight and darkness when it seems darkest of all because your eyes haven’t adjusted to the light and you’re tucked into newly sealed spaces that are meant to have electricity and light fixtures for these circumstances.
The ducts are installed. I take some photos. Electrical cables are strung throughout the house. I take more photos. Cable TV and telephone lines are snaking between floors. The camera flashes again. Vacu-flows are roughed in. Snap, flash, process.
Karin is cold. I lock the door. We go for pizza. The apartment is secure when we get home.