She wears it around her neck on a chain. Safe in the only home it's known, smug between her *******.
A key to her first diary, where she wrote about her hopes and her dreams. About her love for the boy down the street and about how she lost her virginity and cried for a week.        
A key to her trousseau, holding warmth from the blankets and linens,  practicality from the dishware,  love from  the Shakespeare poems and long awaited hope from the yellowing lace.  
A key to her first home, with the white picket fence and the swing set in the back. Where her children would grow up, where laughter would ring and loneliness would echo in the halls                
A key to her favorite jewelry box, with the diamond earrings and macaroni necklace.  The discarded ring that she had to ask for and that never quite fit  
He knows the key is there, he's seen it for 3 decades.  He knows the devastation that is in store if he uses it.
Its the key to open her heart.