I sigh as I turn off the ignition of my car, the collection of keychains on my keyring scratching against the wheel, making the familiar sound that reminds me I am home. I pull the keys away from the ignition and grab the handle of my car door lazily, pushing it open using mostly my body weight as if I was too frail to simply push it with my hand. I get out of my car and close the door with a thud, my thumb pressing the lock button on my car keys twice, my car honks once to assure me it's locked. My legs feel like lead as I walk up to my front door, the neighborhood quiet and dark. Before entering my house I glance back at the moon and breath in the cool night air, all I can hear is a distant siren and the gentle sound of my keys clinking together. I relish in the moment before pulling open the screen door, unlocking the front door with a click, my keys feel heavier than usual, the sound of them hitting the front door nostalgic. I was reminded of the evenings my parents would come home and six-year old me would run to them with wide eyes. Now, I was the one coming home from work, my keys were the ones scratching against the front door. Though I wasn't greeted by a child, but simply a dark and quiet kitchen. I stare at my keys for a moment after I set them down on the table, taking a moment to appreciate the memories they have left me with and the places they have allowed me to go. 

In the early morning, sunlight pours through the windows of my home but at night, only a single warm light above the sink brightens the dark kitchen. My house is not old, only built a few years before my parents moved in, yet the floorboards and doors creek. The upstairs doors are scratched with years of playing, my sisters and I chasing each other through each room. There are a few reminders of my childhood hidden throughout the home. On the inside of the pantry door, there are lines etched showing my sister and I's height increasing over the many years. There is a scribble in Sharpie on the brick fireplace I used to play dolls on. As I've grown up, the halls have lost the magic that made Santa real and dolls come alive, however it was replaced by a strong feeling of comfort and belonging that will always be there.

We often look at our car/home keys and see little to no significance. They are simply the thing we automatically reach for when we walk out of the house, or, if you’re like me, we constantly lose, tearing apart the house to find. However, keys hold far more value then we may initially credit them for. For me, the sound of keys jingling and scratching against the front door provides a ring of nostalgia for me. That sound was essentially a doorbell, announcing my parents' return home. Even years later, I still feel a tinge of excitement when I hear my moms keychain heavy with trinkets and collectible keychains from far away places hitting the front door as the lock clicks. My excitement may partly be from the fact that my mom often had food when she got home, I was practically the dog in Pavlov's experiment, the sound of those keys notifying me food had arrived. 

Then, as I grew, I was finally given my own set of house keys. Oh boy, did this make me feel like an adult. For some reason, having this house key made me feel as if I was grown up, despite being the ripe age of 10 years old. It gave me the idea that, if my parents had given it to me, then that implied I would need to use it… perhaps I would be out on some great adventure and return home when they were not awake or there. The implication was… kind of right. For the most part, I used the key when I returned home from school or when my friends' parents dropped me off. There was always some pressure when I was little, after being dropped by a parent. They sat in the parking lot, their headlights illuminating me, putting me on a stage as I fumbled with the house key. I would remember sliding the key into the lock, turning it to the left and jiggling it back and forth. I would turn back and smile at the car before turning back to the lock, tugging on the key cursing myself for struggling to turn the lock. A sigh of relief would escape me once I got the door open, giving the parent a small wave before slipping into my house, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Eventually, it became easier, and now, I can unlock the door without a hitch. 

I found I was only granted true freedom when my dad dropped my first set of car keys into my hand, my eyes as bright as stars. With shaky hands, I started my car, a new sound that would eventually become just as familiar as my parents keys scratching against the front door. Although this time, the sound of my keys hitting my steering wheel, the roar of my car engine, brought a new feeling of freedom. This freedom was far from the one I felt when I got my first house key. 

At this point I have been driving for about a year, mostly to go to work and school, no where of great excitement or gradour. Nonetheless, my keys are essentially freedom in an object. One of my main goals in life, after I have graduated, is to travel as far as I am allowed. I want to go to each of the US states and then make my way through Europe and Asia. The Earth has so much to offer and I want to take the time to experience and appreciate it. 

My mother's expression is weary as I tell her about my plans to travel. I can't tell if she is sad or disappointed, perhaps a mix of both as her eyebrows knit together. Her crimped hair is pinned back with a clip, as it usually is, a few strands falling in front of her face. I stop, my words falling short as I look at her expression. "What did we do to make you want to leave so badly?" she asked, her voice heavy. She asks me this question every time I mention wanting to travel or move far away.

At first, when she would ask me this, I would feel irritated. How could she not understand the excitement of exploring? Then I realized, her and my fathers life has consisted of making me happy. Every hour they work and every dollar they get goes toward our home and family. This made my plans of traveling much more difficult. My mother and father do not resent me or see me as selfish, they are simply sad to see their youngest daughter leaving them. 

What I have begun to realize, which I didn’t before, is that the time spent traveling will be time spent away from my family. It is awfully difficult to decide how you want to spend your life, the religion I subscribe to, I only get one chance, and there is so much pressure to make the most out of it. Now, I have reached the time in my life where I have to make, what feels like, the biggest decision I have ever made: I have to pick which college to go to. Now, I am a perfectionist, and it shows through all of my work, I have never been known to slack on anything I do. I can confidently say that I am not confident in how I want to spend the rest of my life. My dream is to travel, but I fear that when my time comes, I will regret not spending more of my life with my family. In my heart, I know that the set of keys I hold in my hand each day represent more than just a way to travel and a way to explore. They represent the knowledge that no matter where I go, I will always be welcomed home with open arms.