Nailed It       

She finds the key precisely where she left it last year and fingers it self-consciously.

But no one’s home to see her open the door off the hallway, to hear the creak of hinges or smell the mustiness of a room unused for the better part of the year.

“Ta da,” she says to herself, opening the window.

Outside, there’s snow on the lawn; none of the hints of spring to which she’s opened her Pesach kitchen to in the past.