I do not have any more the key

I had sworn that never I will not pass in front of the castle, for this day when you closed his door definitively. A long time ago, ten years, perhaps more? Nine years, ten months and seven days ago exactly. I cannot make seeming, to speak about it with detachment. That is impossible for me for all these memories which we have with. Its walls are the books of our more beautiful years. Its windows, our first openings on the world. We came there the summer. At this period when all is easier, long days, soft nights. These images are languorous times of summer infinite. They prepared by this long road of the vacancies to join it. One told stories for better crossing his grid, to penetrate in his imaginary. It was ours, of the staircases which squeak, of the closed doors, of the big rooms, this cold of the last winter being detached in scrap under the attacks from a blazing summer. One opened the windows, pushed the shutters; the light settled while we withdraw cloths recovering the pieces of furniture. How much times have it is done? The years passing the rooms became less large, the less high staircases but the magic always operated. So far where we closed his door definitively. Over the moment, nothing us were said. One did not have to say to him goodbye because we thought of returning like habit. Except, that further on the road of the return to the turning of a turn, in this place where there was a red house, blood of the abandonment, we learned that it would be sold. The castle was going to leave us. We still live, today, with this open scar, deeper than all these other summers spent to trail without goal, more painful than these one completed time memories, we always think of him. What did it become? It is always alive in our memory. This is why, I disavowed my promise and came to see it. Its doors, its windows are closed, as if nobody had opened them since our departure. Rust was installed on the large grid of entry. Insane grasses push in the court in front of the garages with the carved wood doors. It waits désœuvré. I approached. I would have liked to push the grid, to open the door, to jump on the first stairs which squeak, to go up as insane in the stages, to open the windows, to make like front. I was able to awake it. At this moment, I became aware that I do not have of it any more the key, the precipitant for always in the cemetery of my memory.