Locked

The combination is gone.

I know it's gone.

I've known for months.

But I keep spinning the dial anyway,

the numbers clicking past—

15, 32, 47—

numbers that mean nothing,

numbers that never worked,

numbers that I'm trying because

the alternative is admitting

I've lost something

I can't get back.

The lock stays locked.

I try again.

Same result.

Different numbers.

Same failure.

There's something almost peaceful about it,

about the futility,

about knowing with absolute certainty

that nothing I do will change this,

that the lock will stay locked,

that the combination I forgot

is gone the way

all forgotten things are gone—

completely, without recourse,

without the possibility

of recovery.

I spin the dial one more time.

Just to be sure.

It doesn't open.