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blog, childhood, childhood memories, creative writing, darkness, fear, heart break, heartache, home, homesick, keys, life, memories, nonfiction, nonfiction writers, old house, pain, prompt, tears, writing prompt
I guess you’d call its color brass. It was like gold to me, though – a small treasure in the palm of my hand. Its cold, smooth texture rubbed against my finger tips as I slipped it cautiously and surprisingly easily into the lock in which it belongs. I say “surprisingly easily” because usually this key takes forever to jiggle into the lock, but not on this night for some reason. It’s almost like the house was waiting for me so we could say our last goodbyes.
I slowly turned the lock as if I were afraid someone were inside, although I knew quite well it was empty. I took a deep breath and turned the cold (also brass) knob and eased open the door. Familiar smells wafted through the air as I walked through the downstairs rooms – mom’s scented candles, fresh laundry, cigar smoke. Reagan and George’s long golden dog hair lingered in the corners of the floor where they once lounged.
It felt almost like all of our things were still here, so I sat where the couch used to be and closed my eyes. Breathing softly, my eyes still closed, my mind began to wander towards the many years of memories made in that room. We played so many family games of Clue over in the corner at the big wooden round card table. Dad always knew who had killed who with what in what room because losing wasn’t exactly his forte, so Lee and I never really had a chance. I remembered the first time my old boyfriend Chris and I were allowed to watch a movie alone in that room with the lights off and a blanket over us. I remembered that kiss. I thought about the many church fellowships held in the house with people talking and laughing and kids running in and out the back door to plunge into the pool. I momentarily considered plunging into the pool myself and never coming back up, but I knew that was a waste of my thoughts, so I stood, erased my mind and ventured to the stairs.
I walked noiselessly up and paused at the top. My little brother’s room was on my left. The door was open so I peaked inside. Memories of pretend games of Peter Pan with old friends flew around agelessly through the thick, hot inside air. The laughter of children – lots of children – wafted playfully up to the ceiling. The pain was almost too much. I blinked back a few tears, shot up a prayer and returned my thoughts slowly to the present.
I stared down the dark hallway to the end only to see the door to my old room shut tight. In that moment, I felt something I’d never experienced before – loss. To me, looking at that shut door was like looking at a closed door to my childhood. To me, looking at that shut door resembled shattered peace and displacement. I hadn’t had a chance to say anything or to stop us from moving. It just happened. And every memory I’d ever made behind that shut door would forever be just memories. And every memory I’d ever dreamed of making behind that shut door would forever be just dreams.
I battled with myself about whether or not to go inside and decided I would. The floor creaked below my feet like it always had in that way that makes it simply impossible for anyone to sneak out if they wanted to. I reached for the door knob and opened the door. All I did was stand there in the doorway unable to move or decide whether I wanted to go in further. There was a force stopping me from going further like glue. I knew that if I went any further into my room that the lump in my throat would grow bigger and eventually become uncontrollable. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I had to go. I stepped back outside and closed the door and this time walked swiftly down the hallway to the stairwell.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the key again. I shined my flashlight down at it to see its jagged edges and feel its icy surface. Once more I turned to look at the door that enclosed my old life and let the tears fall. Everything for me was about to change, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.
I turned around and headed back down the stairs paused one more time at the bottom and looked carefully around. I thought about what these rooms would look like once the new owners moved in – new furniture, new smells, new children running around, new memories – but the one thing that bothered me the most was that once that happened, once another family moved in here, I could never call this house my home again. I knew it was all over, and I knew it really was time to go.
Tears still falling down my face, I walked outside, relocked the door and left the key in a pot. I got in my car, put it in drive, and never looked back.