I have no keys in my pocket. Not one.
I have always had keys in my pocket: my childhood bike lock key and house key when I was in old enough to be trusted, a dorm room key and a gym basket key in college, followed by the car keys, house keys, and safe deposit box keys of adulthood. Today I have no keys in my pocket.
Each chapter of this preparation phase has been marked by letting go of one key after another.
I left my office key in the drawer and locked the door behind me late at night after I finally finished the handoff document to my faceless replacement (they're hiring sometime soon, I hear).
I left the key to "the marital home" on his brand new kitchen table, after removing the last remnants of my half of our twenty years together.
I slipped my condo key through the mailslot at the realtors, for the renters to settle in next month before grad school starts in the fall.
I put my car key on my mom's keyring. There's space in her Texas carport for two cars. She'll keep it in the shade for me, taking it out for a run into town from time to time.
I've placed each key where it belongs now. It's just me and my suitcases. My pockets are empty.