The way he held the door open for my mom was so normal.
The 6 foot 3 inches tall man with a bald head and beard that held forests,
the beer gut that held all the tears he held back,
the tattoos all across his arms and knuckles.
When he held the door open for my mom, I thought nothing of it.
A simple gesture that we're taught of when we're young, it meant nothing.
He made sure his body was parallel with the door, avoiding any chance of contact.
And I wasn't sure why that was until I saw him again,
right after 3 pops.
You see, the burly gentleman wasn't so much of a gentleman,
but a thief.
Because I saw him run out with blood on his shirt,
a piece in his hand,
and stuffed pockets.
The way he ran out, was anything but gentle.
There was no holding the door for the older woman about to walk in,
but a single gunshot to the gut.
4 gunshots, 3 victims,
and 2 now motherless children.
You should know he got away.
My mother is dead.
And I don't let people hold doors for me anymore.