Papa's Keys

My two year-old is obsessed with the beautiful, formidable doors and gates all over Vienna. Our walks take an increasingly long time, because she stops at seemingly every entryway to pull on knobs and handles.

"Papa," she cries. "Keys!"

"I don't have the key to that door, Eve," I tell her.

"Papa!" She says again, holding out her hand. "Keys."

"My keys are to our house, Eve." I gesture helplessly. I pull out my keys, point to them and then to our apartment, somewhere off in the distance. "The keys won't fit here. This is somebody else's house."

Eve listens intently but impatiently. Nicole tries explaining the situation in her own way. She seems to understand, but she's not buying it.

"Keys, Papa!"

How long will it last, this irrevocable faith that papa has the keys to all doors?