House Key

It still jingles on my keychain.
I use it to open and let myself inside.
Not that it fits the lock;
but when called on, with a mental twist,
the tumblers always click.
While the years and furnishings change,
my parents remain the same.
Indoors, it’s always summer or school,
and a lingering sawdust smell
continues to permeate the basement air.
Untroubled by nostalgia or
a sense of loss, the kitchen clock tocks.
As the cramped rooms
enlarge to accommodate my memories,
I shrink to a perfect fit
in an afternoon’s timeless harmony.
A jangling accompaniment,
carried for decades, that master key
still unlocks what’s inside.

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