Keys to the Past

A brass key shines dull, at the bottom of drawers,

Each curve holds a story, each dent knows the wars.

I polished it gently, remembering the grace

Of laughter that echoed in our old, happy space.

It feels heavy still, like a weight of the years,

Unlocking the moments, the laughter, the tears.

My grandmother’s smile lingers, a ghost in the room,

As I trace over memories, both bright and the gloom.

This key, not for locks, but for moments once shared,

A symbol of secrets, of love unprepared.

And I hold it so close, like a breath held in trust,

The past wrapped in brass, in both beauty and rust.