the end of the story

black handled key on key hole
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Front door keys balanced on a window ledge

As all the boxes rumble from the cul de sac

Where all those memories formed within

A set of walls no older than the flares

That hung inside the wardrobe, eaten by the moths.

But when the door clicked shut, for the final time,

The clothes and books and ornaments all packed

And only slender shafts of dusty light

Occupied the heavy space that once was bright

Strung with little bursts of laughter like

The bunting in the garden when we held our parties

Underneath the pin prick stars that sauntered down,

Extinguished with the rising of the Sunday sun,

Tugged away by the moving van, that sputtered

To a place I think I’ll never know or love.

I don’t know about anyone else but I still can’t watch the final episode of Friends without crying. That moment where all six of them are together and they all put their keys on the kitchen work top before they leave the apartment for the last time.

There is something about the memories that we create inside a set of walls, and how leaving that space feels like we are leaving a little piece of ourselves behind.

The sale of my parents’ house was finalised yesterday. They left their keys on the side in the kitchen and we will never set foot inside that building again. I didn’t go while it was being cleared out, but I can only imagine how sad it was to see it without the furniture; without it’s clothes.

I feel very contemplative today. I hate my mother for what she has done but there is nothing that I can say or do so I just have to let her go and hope that she doesn’t live to regret the choices she has made.

I hope that you never have to put the keys down on a place that you have loved. It hurts, but this is the stuff that our lives are built on. This is another story that I will learn to tell with a smile. One day.

Much Love

Rachel xx