The knob jiggles in my hand

The knob jiggles in my hand,

a minor rebellion against the order of things,

as I stand at the door of my childhood home,

hesitating before opening it,

a doorknob betraying a history,

the chipped paint whispering secrets of those who have come and gone.

I twist it slowly,

like memories coming unlatched—

a rush of light spills into shadows,

every creak a voice from the past,

recalling the laughter, the tears,

all those moments trapped between walls.

Inside, I’m met with echoes,

a room still holding breath,

ghosts of what was linger in the air,

each memory clings like dust,

as I step through the threshold,

a hesitant wanderer,

seeking what’s been lost.