The Keyhole

I came back to the house where I grew up. For a long time I tried to open the door, fumbling with keys in the lock.

“Who are you?” asked my neighbor, carrying a bucket.

“I live here. I lived here,” I answered.

“Who are you talking to?” An elderly woman leaned out from behind the door and climbed the stairway wearily.

“Are you Masha? Olga’s daughter?” she asked me.

I nodded. They always recognize me here—no matter how many years have passed. The neighbors. They will remind you of what you’ve long forgotten.