The rusted door knob,

from the front entrance

of my childhood home.

I took it after we moved away,

and the locks were changed.

It was sitting on a shelf

when we went to collect

the remainder of our belongings.

It’s small and gold.

From a distance it glistens,

but up close it looks worn.

It’s covered in tiny scratches

and it’s paint has chipped

from years of use.

I wonder how many hands

have used it to enter our home.

Like me, the door knob is worn,

we’re not as vibrant as we once were.

We’ve both had our fair share of scrapes

over the years.

But, nonetheless, still have purpose.

This small relic from my old home

reminds me of childhood.

A time when my brothers and I

would play in the Autumn leaves.

Before one moved away

and got too busy to visit.

A time when I was young and naive,

and didn’t yet know how cruel life can be.

But, it’s just a door knob.