We return our rented golf cart to be cleaned.

The cart jockey is a tiny man in shorts, tennis shoes with big socks, a Caribbean shirt and a blue faded ball cap. There are four carts ahead of ours that he has to clean, toss trash, wipe down seats, check gas, and inspect. We use golf carts because they speed up our play, and that, in theory, helps us play better.

At my feet is a small key with a number 3 on it.

Barely visible in the pebbles, I pick the key up, bend it, watch it spring back to its original position. It isn’t a golf cart key because they are metal, and a different shape. I ask the little Irishman with blond hair pushing out from under the sides of his ball cap what the key belongs too?

He looks a moment while he wipes down a cart seat.

” That’s the key to the box of Forgotten Dreams. ”

There are many keys in this world.  Keys to lock boxes, keys to offices and homes, keys to cars, keys to your heart.

All the dreams in the world aren’t much good if you forget where you put them.

As we head back to the car, I hear him whistling ” Danny  Boy. ”

I believe he has a box full of dreams under his bed and opens the unlocked box frequently.

 

 

 

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