The Old Gray Door
by Marsha Marie
Nancy slowly approaches the gray steel door. The silver plaque is barely legible through the tears flowing down her face. It seems just a few days ago she was holding little Tommy in her arms. That sweet smile and baby fresh smell rings thru her nostrils as she squeezes her eyes shut.
“My sweet baby boy. Mommy loves you so much. I will always be there for you!”
These words pound heavily on her head. Thirty years have passed. These promises are nothing but failed whispers today. She had been a great mother overall, but Nancy was not there yesterday, when Tommy needed her to stop him from driving his Harley in that condition. The long-ago promise was broken by a knock at the door by police.
The hallway is dim and cold. Nancy clutches her purse. She knows she has to go in. She breaks her hand from the grasp, forcing it to reach for the door’s dreary handle. Her old ashy hand trembles. A pain shoots through her heart and down her arm. She jerks her hand back as if an electric current zapped her through the door. She falls and collapses in front of the door still.
The old gray door to the morgue looks down at the old woman, and sighs.
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