MY MOTHER’S KEYS

When I took my keys 

from my pocket

something about them

was different.

They were lighter 

than before.

For five years

I've carried my mother’s 

three keys on my key ring.

Today I turned them in.

Her apartment is

no longer hers.

It is somebody else’s 

now. How quickly

the deceased are replaced 

by the living.

There are only two keys

on my key ring today,

the keys to a house

my mother gave me.

The keys look so lonely there

by themselves 

side by side, like strangers 

not knowing what to say. 

Like grief and gratitude

meeting for the first time.

I hold them in the palm 

of my open hand 

and think: 21 grams. 

Could it be that 

the weight of the missing 

keys is the same 

as the weight 

of an ascended soul?