Installing a latch on a door frame. Power tools, check. Thick nails force their way into metal and wood. This is a matter of utmost security, this door latch. So that when the intruder comes, this chain will stop him. Unless he has bolt cutters. Then it’s time for plan B. The latch is an oddly shiny golden color. Over time the paint will fade and brown, get worn. It better hold from those bolt cutters.
Latch-key kids, to whom I was never a part. But they seem like a pretty cool gang. House keys that lie under the Welcome mat, in the mailbox, under a potted plant, in the dirt. So many creative ways of breaking and entering, or yes of course, leaving an extra key in case one was forgotten or you locked yourself out.
I don’t have much else to say about metallic latches, or even those that exist with some pulled drawstring that opens something. The word and object seem so incredibly mundane I cannot give it life. It is stone cold dead to me. It is inane. I think of hotel rooms and my grandma’s and great-grandma’s apartments in the subsidized housing unit they lived in. Latches at the door. Economical alarm system if you’re awake enough to hear the rumble.
There is a latch on the back of a necklace. Or is that a clasp? So small, tiny, and made for dainty fingers. It is a lesson in patience. And sometimes there are just bracelets that are impossible to put on by yourself. There should be signs that say “do not buy if you are living alone”. The glint and glitter of silver and gold sparkle. Some middle-aged woman’s pirate chest. That will sink to the bottom of her inheritance, that she won’t be able to take with her when she dies. Scream and scram. And then she disappears into a puff of smoke and cackles like the Wicked Witch of the West. Ruby slipper prize. They probably hurt too much anyway. Could Dorothy have just called it quits and lived in Oz on the run? Spinning cyclone houses. Special effects were pretty good for the 30s.