I found it in the drawer with all

I found it in the drawer with all

the things we keep and never need,

the brass key, small, among the sprawl

of rubber bands and misdeeds—

things that matter less than how

we hold them, less than why.

My mother can't remember now

where it came from, can't recall why

it's been there for twenty years,

what door it opens, if it ever did.

I hold it in my hand. It appears

to open nothing. I feel a bit

of something I can't name—

not guilt, exactly. Just the same

inherited habit to keep

what doesn't make sense, to not

throw away what might be deep

with meaning, just forgotten. Got

to hold the mystery close.

I'll keep it. This is how we lost

the difference between what we chose

and what we simply couldn't bear

to let go of. I'll keep it there,

the key that opens nothing,

locked in my own hand, something

I'll pass along someday, the way

she passed it to me, key and the play

of holding what we'll never understand,

never open, never quite let stand

alone outside our keeping.