Old Keys

I spent the whole day searching and seeking,
looking and wondering.

The warm house didn’t hold it.
The coffee cabinet didn’t have it.
And the dog didn’t understand.

My family thought I was crazy.
And the sun and moon,
the splattered colors on my canvas,
didn’t help much.

And the open notebook
with only a few lines
didn’t mean a thing.

And the door was still locked,
and I didn’t have my bronze key.

But I found a gold one
that was fairly similar.
It kind of had the shape,
but not the color.

So I took my brush
and mixed a few things,
painting it over,
hoping to succeed.

But when it dried
and I tried to put it in,
the color chipped,
and it didn’t fit.

So I looked again
and went to the kitchen,
looking down the drain
that had filled with my tears yesterday.

I looked in the trash,
thinking maybe I had thrown it out by mistake.

But I found another.
Silver was its name.

It didn’t have the best shape,
and it was quite small.

But I went to my room,
took my brush,
mixed a few things,
and tried again.

But it kept turning
and it didn’t open.

Too small.
Too short.

And the color had chipped again.

I went for a walk through the front door,
thinking if I cleared my mind,
it would come back to me—
where I had left the key.

I saw kids and dogs.
Felt the wind and sun rays.
The leaves that fell
were in my pathway.

And the couple on a bench,
sharing a laugh,
looked so happy.

How I miss that.

I made my way back
and found myself at home.

But when I went to bed,
I felt a poke.

I felt my pocket
and something hard.

I pulled out a key—
bronzed and old,
long and medium-sized.

There was a good chance
this was it.

The whole time.

I rushed out of bed
and ran to the door.

And I slipped the key in, but—

the door didn’t open.

That’s when I realized:

Old keys won’t work
on new locks.

I hadn’t lost the key.

No.

I had changed the doorknob,
and the lock was not the same anymore.

It wasn’t old.

It was new.

And I guess
old keys won’t open new doors.

And the thought of that
put me on my knees.

Oh, how I missed your smile.
Your laughter.
Your name.

I missed you so much
I kept the key to your heart.

But the door wasn’t the same.

It had changed,
and so had you.

But I found the key.

And I put it back
right where it was.

And the next morning,
I will get up
and look for it again—

not realizing
old doors can’t open again,

and some locks
will never be the same.

But the key
will be a reminder
of your name.

And I will keep playing
the game of missing
instead of learning to understand

that the door changed
and shut for a reason.

And some doors
are not meant
to be opened again.