The Sound That Came After the Keys
I used to love it, that moment he came home. Before I knew better. Before I learned you could want someone back and still fear what walked in.
It always
started
with metal.
The rattle.
The drag.
The twist.
The door wasn’t just a door.
It was a loaded question
I had to answer
with my breath.
I used to love it,
that moment he came home.
Before I knew better.
Before I learned
you could want someone back
and still fear what walked in.
Sometimes he brought fast food.
A joke.
A crooked smile
that looked like it remembered
how to be a father.
And for five whole minutes,
I could forget.
I could pretend
he was mine
in a way that felt safe.
But other nights
the keys scraped longer.
The door fought back.
And my chest got tight
before he even stepped in.
I’d sit in the dark
counting the seconds
between metal
and voice.
Hoping he’d call my name
and not curse it.
Hoping he’d reach for the fridge
and not the wall.
The sound of his boots
could be music.
Or a warning.
It depended
on what came before.
I kept a toy near
just in case
tonight was a good one.
But I kept my shoes on too
just in case
it wasn’t.
That’s the thing
about a boy waiting for his father.
It’s never just waiting.
It’s training.
Training to hear footsteps
like weather.
Training to read slurs
like scripture.
Training to balance
hope and reflex
in the same spine.
He could be gentle.
He could be gone.
He could be something
in between.
And I had to be ready
for all of it.
Sometimes I ran to him.
Sometimes I hid.
Sometimes I smiled
before he looked
just to keep the temperature down.
And when the door closed behind him
I didn’t exhale.
Not yet.
Not until I knew
which version of him
made it home.
Because the sound
that came after the keys
wasn’t just footsteps.
It was love,
shaking hands
with fear.
This poem appears on page 54 of Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Raised Me,
Chapter Four—When Presence Smelled Like Stale Beer.
Before this book had chapters,
it had nights like these.
Where the difference between love and danger
was the sound of keys in the lock
and how long it took
for someone to open the door after.
This collection isn’t out yet,
but it’s close.
Built from the kind of memories
you don’t write to be remembered,
you write because they never left.
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