The Door

The door so chipped and faded you could scarcely make out the last brush strokes of rusty red paint. She stared back at it hating the life it represented the hopelessness, the lost and tattered dreams, the unkept promises, and the loneliness that seemed to have crept into every corner. She sighs deeply drawing the first stroke, the bright red paint glistening in the morning sun running in wild ribbons from her brush. It wouldn’t fix much maybe nothing at all, but today anyway there would be something new and maybe it would be the first and not the last…