The Last Remaining Guard, poetry by Sarb Randhawa at Spillwords.com

The Last Remaining Guard

The Last Remaining Guard

written by: Sarb Randhawa

 

It’s strange how a lock can outlive a family.

The house may fall quiet, the people may scatter like seeds in the wind, but the lock stays, clinging to the old door as if it remembers every hand that once turned its key.

There was a time it opened easily—when a father returned at dusk, when children rushed in with scraped knees and laughter, when a mother carried the smell of warm food out into the courtyard. The lock knew those rhythms, those comings and goings.

Now it only knows stillness.
The door behind it sighs with dust—rooms inside sleep with beds that no one will lie on again. If you pushed a window, perhaps you’d still smell the faint trace of turmeric, of oil, of life long gone.

And yet, standing before it, you don’t just see a rusted lock.
You hear the hush of plates being set down, the crackle of a radio in another room, the quiet after the last goodbye.

Some locks hold more than doors.
They hold the remains of a world.

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