You never know when the key will turn, when it will appear in your hand, and into the lock of a door long closed. A slight twist of the wrist, and the door now opens to a room kept in the dark, filled with shadows. You enter, reluctant, and the cobwebs part, and you leave footprints in the dust from now to then. You see the pictures once again, of long dead friends and those that killed them, and those you managed to even the score, side by side on a mantle of memories, placed there long ago. And then the door closed, and all forgotten, until the turn of the key. How it appears and why, are questions without answers, but it always fits the lock, and it always turns without effort, and what lies within is always the same as before. Sadness in a long gone face, or a name, or a place you never wanted to see again. A mirror hangs on the wall, but the face within is a younger you, with eyes too cold for the years upon it, and a smile that speaks of death delivered, too hard for a man so young, yet there it was and there it is, hidden until today, and yesterday, and other days when the lock was turned by the key. You’ll leave again, and close the door, and lock it tight… until the next time. You never know when the key will turn, only that it will, again and again, for the rest of your days.
                                                           JC 4/3/07