I am older than anyone who lives in this house remembers. A brass doorknob, Victorian in style, with an ornate keyhole that serves as my eye to the world. For over a century, I've been the silent guardian between what lies within and without, witnessing generations come and go through the heavy oak door I adorn.34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGvH3QNm9YE
My world is one of transitions—of hellos and goodbyes, of arrivals and departures, of the first steps into a new home and the last glances before leaving forever. I am both the first and last thing touched when someone enters or exits this space that humans call "home."
Unlike most of my kind, who see only glimpses of lives as doors swing open and closed, I have the advantage of my keyhole. Through this tiny aperture, I observe fragments of the world beyond—a sliver of hallway, a patch of garden, the occasional curious eye of a child peering in. These fractured images form a kaleidoscope of human existence that I've pieced together over decades.
I remember the day I was first installed, the carpenter's rough hands working me into position, his muttered curses as he aligned my mechanism with the latch. He smelled of sawdust and tobacco, and his fingers were stained with the dark patina that would eventually color me as well. "This one will last," he said to no one in particular, giving me a final polish with his handkerchief. He was right, though I doubt he imagined just how long.
The first family who lived here was formal—gloved hands turned me gently, never a slam or a hasty entrance. The children were taught to close the door quietly, and they did, most of the time. Through my keyhole, I watched them grow taller until one day they no longer needed to stretch to reach me.
War came twice. I felt it in the desperate clutches of telegram-bearing messengers, in the trembling hands of wives and mothers receiving news, in the hesitant turns from returning soldiers who were never quite the same. During the second great war, the house emptied nearly completely, save for an elderly housekeeper who spoke to me sometimes when she thought no one was listening.
"Just you and me now, old friend," she'd say, polishing me weekly despite there being no one to impress. I gleamed for her anyway.
The '60s brought a new family—louder, more casual. Their hands were often sticky with ice cream or wet from summer swims. The children slammed me constantly, their parents shouting after them about household respect. They installed a knocker above me, a gaudy brass lion that stole some of my thunder but brought new entertainment as visitors rat-a-tat-tatted their arrivals.
I've been painted four times—black in the '30s (a terrible decade for me, as the paint clogged my keyhole and limited my view), red in the '70s (the family was "making a statement," whatever that meant), back to my natural brass in the '90s when "restoration" became fashionable, and then briefly a horrible copper spray paint by teenagers who were quickly made to restore me to my proper finish.
Keys have come and gone—some ornate and matching my period, others modern and functional. Currently, I'm operated by a simple Yale key, though the family keeps a vintage key on a hook in the hallway "for show." Humans and their decorative sensibilities never cease to amuse me.
The worst day of my existence came in 2004, when a handyman suggested replacing me with a modern handle. "This old thing is probably original to the house," he said, as if that were a flaw rather than my proudest attribute. I've never been so terrified, feeling his screwdriver probe my mounting screws. Thankfully, the homeowner—an older woman with an appreciation for history—stopped him.
"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "That doorknob has seen more of this house's story than any of us. It stays."
I could have gleamed with gratitude, had I the ability.
Through my years, I've been turned by hands wearing lace gloves and texting gloves, hands bearing wedding rings and hands empty of them after divorce, tiny fingers learning to open doors and gnarled fingers that struggle with my mechanism. I've felt the subtle differences in how people operate me—the confident grasp of owners, the tentative touch of visitors, the forceful twist of those in a hurry.
Holidays bring their own rhythms. Christmas means constant activity, the door rarely closed as family members bustle in with presents and food. Halloween means frequent turning as costumed children come and go. Summer weekends bring barbecue guests who leave my surface slightly sticky. During sad times—funerals and wakes—I'm turned slowly, respectfully, often by hands that tremble slightly.
Technology has changed everything around me. The letters that once arrived through the mail slot beneath me have dwindled to bills and advertisements. Now news comes through devices I glimpse through my keyhole—glowing screens that capture human attention in ways I never could. Visitors no longer arrive unannounced; their approach is heralded by electronic chimes from phones.
The current family has lived here for fifteen years—parents, two children (now teenagers), and a dog whose nose occasionally presses against my keyhole, his curious sniffs fogging my view. The father has a habit of jangling his keys before finding the right one, a sound I've grown to anticipate each evening around six. The mother often rests her hand on me for a moment before leaving, as if drawing strength for whatever awaits her outside. The children barely notice me now, though the younger one once drew a picture of the house with me prominently featured—oversized and gold against the red door.
Last month, I overheard a conversation that sent a chill through my brass core. The parents, standing in the hallway, discussed "downsizing" now that the children were approaching college age. "We don't need this much space anymore," the mother said, her hand absently stroking my surface. "But I'll miss this old place."
Since then, strangers have come through, led by a woman with a clipboard who points out "original features" (including me) and "areas that could use updating" (thankfully not including me). I've been turned more in the past few weeks than in the previous year, as potential new owners inspect what might become their home.
It's happening again—the cycle of departure and arrival that I've witnessed countless times. I wonder about the next hands that will grasp me daily, the next voices that will echo in the hallway, the next stories I'll be part of without being able to share my own.
Tonight, as the house settles into silence, I feel the reassuring coolness of the night air through my keyhole. Whatever comes next, I'll remain—the steady constant in a house of changes, the quiet observer of human lives that flicker past like shadows through my narrow view. I've been called "just a doorknob" by those who don't understand, but those with wisdom know better. I am memory embodied in brass, a steadfast guardian of thresholds both physical and temporal.
And as long as I remain, no story that has passed through this doorway is ever truly forgotten. It lives in the tarnish on my surface, in the slight wear of my mechanism, in the silent witness I keep. When the next family arrives, I'll be waiting, ready to begin again, to add their chapter to the long story I hold within my metal heart.34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡINhEENFF1S
