Ticking

         The generic ticking of a battery-operated clock and steady creaking of an old rocking chair created a backdrop for the old woman's thoughts. Her frail hands gripped the arms of the white Victorian rocker, her gaze fixed on the motionless door. A large calendar hung on the wall next to the clock, a large circle drawn with a red Sharpie Mini enclosed the square for that day, a little sticker of a rainbow birthday cake adorning it. The old woman smiled. In her mind she saw the door swing open and a dozen smiling faces as her daughter and her husband, their children and their children's children came in, holding a great big chocolate cake with peanut butter icing, lit with candles in the shape of an eight and nine.
         A tolling from the clock counted the twelfth hour of the day, a resounding annoyance in the still room. The old woman grasped the handle of a wooden brush and continued to sweep it through thin strands of white hair. Elegant bracelets made of thin white gild jostled on her tiny wrist. They glistened in the sunlight that stole into the room through the one large window.
         Outside the air vibrated in the parks full of children's laughter. Teens celebrated the freedom that came with the weekend. A mother pushed a black pin-striped stroller on the blacktop bike trail. Fishing lines hit the placid surface of a nearby lake with a soft plop as fishermen cast their lines. A worn yellow baseball cracked off a metal bas as a group of preteens played at Milton Park.
         The room remained silent except for the ticking of the clock and the steady creaks of the rocking chair. A porcelain cup sat on the glass end table next to the chair, holding the remnants of her herbal green tea. The oriental design attracted her attention for a moment, her gaze following the path of the painted lines. The chipped rim reminded her of when Samantha had accidentally hit it years ago with a plate at the dinner table.
         There was a dull ache in her chest as she thought of these days. Her wedding day, the long white dress, no frills or ribbons, just the smooth white silk cascading along her body as she walked down the petal-strewn aisle. The priest stood at the altar, a Bible in his hands, the cross of Christ hanging behind him. The ceremony has been moved indoors because of the forecasted rain.
         Her daughter was born at 4:04 on the morning of December 17th, nineteen months after their wedding. She remembered Samantha's first tee-ball game when the short five-year-old tripped, running to first base, but pushed herself up, her face covered in dirt, and dashing to the base again just moments before the baseball arrived in the glove of the little first baseman.
         Nine-year-old Sammy pirouetted into her mind, performing at her second ballet recital, landing a cabriole, her face glowing.
         The year she trick-or-treated as Cinderella, Sam divided her candy into chocolate and non-chocolate groups. When she ate half the chocolate chip cookies that were meant for Santa. Falling and skinning her knee the first time she told her father to let go of the bike.
         She snapped out of her reverie as the clock struck seven, then chuckled, realizing how much time she had spent daydreaming. She returned her attention to the door, knowing her daughter would soon be there/ As the hours passed, the door suffered no movement.
         The ninth hour came, and finally there was a knock at the door. She struggled to stand, pushing herself to her feel. "Coming!" she called/ She excitedly opened the door, grinning, to a nurse. "It's time for your medicine, ma'am."