The Home

The brass was cold in her hand.
The key felt heavy,
as if it, too, wanted her to leave.
And her family.

She stood tall in front of her haven,
the home she called her castle.
Her father's house now felt shorter than ever.

The walls she drew on,
her first canvas.
The swing,
still hanging from the mango tree.
She never knew its age.
She never asked.
Now she regretted—
not asking, not staying,
not knowing.

Everything was there.
But the swing, the tree, and the painting
that used to hang at the mantle...
gone.
Her books?
Gone.
Her bedroom, never so tidy,
yet she hated the view.
The empty bookshelf screamed.

But the terrace was the same.
It smiled at her.
She looked up, but alas, it was still afternoon.
No stars were there.
No moon to wipe her tears this time.
The sun always felt cruel,
but today, it felt warm.
The mango tree was sad;
it would never feel her touch again,
never hide her while she sneaked fruit
in the night, when her eyes
forgot to close the dam.

The brass was cold and heavy.
It smirked.
It didn’t care.
It never lost its value;
it was just sold.

Was it just a piece of land?
Was it just bricks and concrete?
Maybe it was.
Why, then, does something seem to be fading
into an eternal silence
she wouldn't ever reach?

She sat on the stool.
No sofa to provide her with a soft seat.
Was it destined?
If she had been here...
if the closest people
were close enough...
would the brass still feel so heavy in her hand?

It was time
to leave.
She crossed the threshold,
only to feel something pulling her dress.