Mama always said that a closed door was another one opening somewhere, that every exit is an entrance. The last time she’d said that was when they were dragging their belongings to the car. Before that, was when she’d come home early that one time. I could see her teeth like crushed eggshells framed in a smile so brittle that even the faintest breath could’ve blown it away. She wasn’t wearing makeup that last time.
I kept waiting for those doors, all those years. I don’t know where Mama saw those doors. After so many times, I wasn’t sure how she kept going and how she could keep saying that same thing over and over again. But then again, I didn’t seem to have any trouble seeing the doors after they were closed. There was always another closed door. Doors that could have been Success, Financial Security, Happiness turned us away towards Failure, Poverty, and Despair.
Probably, she was still saying it when I was grown and gone. What doors did she see, then?
I’m standing at her grave now, and in my mind’s eye I can see her standing there surrounded by doors. But not the kind of doors that just closed again. Wide, open doors.
At least, that’s what I would like to think.
As for myself, there is only another closed door.
Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day 10