XIX. Things I Don't Understand: "Keys"(Part II).

Entry / Return

The key goes in.

It turns.

It should open.

That’s the idea, anyway.

But I never quite know

which way to turn—

or whether I’ve just relocked

what was briefly,

mercifully, ajar.

The knob spins,

or doesn’t.

The bolt clicks—

ambiguous.

The latch softens—

but something in the frame

resists.

A delay.

A mechanical shrug.

A kind of judgmental silence.

Occasionally, a door opens,

not because I understood it,

but because,

by accident or grace,

I matched the angle

the world was asking for.

Even then,

I half expect to be punished.

Or,

at minimum,

mildly scolded.

This door,

specifically,

has been watching me

since the hallway.

With the stillness

of someone that hasn’t quite

forgiven me.

I approach

with a key I’ve used before.

It fits.

It turns—

but not all the way.

It gives,

but not gently.

Though the latch yields,

I remain held.

Not by the lock.

By the memory

inside the mechanism.

It remembers a version of me

I didn’t bring.

The lock mutters:

"Really? You?"

And honestly—

fair.

I freeze—

not from fear,

but because the voice

has heard it all before.

Not angry.

Just disappointed.

“Where’s your remorse?”

“Where’s your posture of departure?”

The key, still in my hand, adds:

“You didn’t even knock.”

Now I’m flanked,

a passive-aggressive lock,

and a key

who speaks English,

dislikes being misused,

and has very strong opinions

about thresholds.

A key, it turns out,

is less an object

than an obligation.

Not a promise to unlock,

but to return.

Precisely.

Intact.

The same shape you arrived in.

To remember

who you were—

before entry,

before access,

before the door said yes

with conditions

tucked beneath the hinge.

I didn’t know I was making a vow.

I only wanted in.

Warmth.

Light.

Maybe a room

that didn’t echo

with disappointment.

But now the key is stuck.

And the lock is asking questions

my hands can’t answer.

"What was your intention?

What will you take with you?

Will you leave

the same way you came?

(Will you leave at all?)"

There’s something unsettling

about how precisely

the inanimate can withhold.

How a lock

can detect dishonesty.

How a hinge

can shake

with memory.

I pause.

Not from hesitation,

but because the weight of my wanting

clings to the woodwork

like humidity.

Some thresholds don’t care if you’re ready.

Others require a written statement,

three forms of ID,

and a confession.

I want to lie.

Say my hands are clean.

That I came to give, not take.

That I’m just borrowing grace

and will be on my way.

But the key—

it knows.

It has opened better doors.

It remembers

who I was

the last time I left

before I finished being.

And it will not move

until I match the memory.

A key, it turns out,

is a brass-colored mirror

that asks:

"Do you recognize yourself?

And if not—

should you be here?"

Some part of me

wants to stay

inside whatever opens.

To dissolve in the warmth.

To forget

how I first arrived.

But the key twists back.

Not harshly,

just firmly.

"You may not exit

until you become again

what you were

before."

And what if I can’t?

What if this door

blocks a version of me

I cannot un-enter?

Sometimes I think

the key will outlive me,

lodged in the lock,

tensed in its almost,

remembering

what I choose not to.

I jiggle.

I apologize.

I whisper things

that sound like growth—

in multiple tones:

sincere, sheepish,

half-performed.

Still, the silence holds its breath.

The air between bolt and frame

holds a kind of memory.

From inside the mechanism,

a pressure speaks:

“What are you here for?”

I pretend I didn’t hear.

“You always pretend,” it says.

I answer—

“To return.

To leave something.

To be let in, maybe."

The voice doesn’t respond.

But I hear a tightening.

Not unkind—

just certain.

I lean in.

The door smells

of varnish,

cedar,

guilt baked into old wood.

A hint of winter spice.

I ask the key

if it’s still willing.

It doesn’t answer.

But it doesn’t leave.

Which feels

like a kind of agreement.

I press again—

aligned, maybe.

Or close enough.

The lock exhales.

Barely audible.

Somewhere between

forgiveness

and fatigue.

The door opens.

Not fully.

Just enough

to unsettle the air.

And for a moment,

the key stays lodged.

Not stuck.

Just…

Thinking.

I ask if we’re done.

If I can go.

It doesn’t answer.

But I feel it watching me—

like an old friend

who remembers

what I promised

and never quite delivered.

So I leave the key there.

Not in defiance—

as an offering.

A reminder:

Not every entry is clean.

Not every opening

wants you back.

---

Afterturn

(Addendum: Things I Still Don’t Understand)

People say,

"It’s simple. Just turn it."

They don’t know

how many ways

a turn can go wrong.

How some locks

jam from memory.

How intention

is not the same

as permission.

Sometimes,

I think the key resents being used.

Then again,

maybe it’s just tired

of being needed

by someone who always hesitates—

like they’re asking too much.

Sometimes,

I leave doors open

and call it trust.

But really,

it’s avoidance.

A loophole

I renamed faith.

The key remembers

the version of me

I don’t like to revisit—

the way I rushed entry.

How I cracked—

mid-sentence,

mid-season,

mid-self.

Still,

I carry it.

This slender emblem

of all I do not know

but must hold anyway.

I carry it

like a maybe.

Like a wound

with a handle.

Like proof

that once—

I meant to come back.

Even now,

I don’t always turn it right.

I hesitate.

I guess.

I press too hard,

or not enough.

And sometimes—

in spite of me—

the door gives.

Not all the way.

But enough to remind me:

Returning

is not always a grand arrival.

As some doors

will not forgive

the sound you made

when you walked away.

They'll wait—

not to welcome,

but to witness

who you are

now.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.