- When memories are no longer in one's mind,
but just beneath the skin. -
(an older piece I found, as I am now writing something about memory.)

When he came home
after years of wandering,
he had a wish
to forget where he had been.

The threshold
of the place he called home,
drew a line
that turned his past
into a scar, a sign.

Nine years were a deep wound
and memory, a device, so useless,
no more, no less.

When he came home,
he didn't sit on his couch,
did not spend a second
in his blue bedroom,
did not even take a look
at his favorite book.

He stepped into the garden,
as if he was drawn
just after the rain,
attracted by the shiny lawn.

A warm piece of metal
was hidden in the thick grass
and he picked it up,
a key made of brass.

He held it for just a moment
that lasted until dawn,
then he opened his tired hand
to let the key slide
forever into his pocket.

When he came home,
he knew he had a key
for a lock that sealed
the scar of memory