Everyday Canvas

The Knock on my Door

I hear someone knocking at the front door, just as I am tryjng to close the fridge's door, which has a mind of its own and it won't budge until I eat half the things inside, on the shelves.

O my God, what a wonderful surprise! It is Lyn visiting me, but she has missed seeing the doorbell. So she keeps banging and banging. I open the door and welcome her in, her suitcases and all, but if it were someone else, someone who rubs me the wrong way, I would still welcome them and probably say, "Come in, come in. When I heard the door, I thought maybe the fumigating company changed their schedule. My place is going to be fumigated for bedbugs by next week."

Lyn, to my surprise, looks tense as if she is experiencing indecision about something or other. She clears her throat without saying hello, and her fingers lose their grip on the suitcases as she dumps them out right at the entrance, letting patterns and fabric take to the air and then settle every which way. She says, "Here, I brought them to you. I am giving up quilting and will write the great American novel."

Before I can congratulate her on her valiant decision, the quilting bits and pieces of Kaffe fabric, no less, are all over my house, confusing my husband because he thinks he is the only one who can throw things around. By the looks of him, I can guess he's feeling the saliva build in the back of his throat as he chokes with emotion for spotting a kindred spirit who can make a mess at least close to what he can accomplish in an instant.

Between the floating and falling quilt pieces and hubby's reaction, a sudden lightheadedness makes me lose sensation in my body, and I stumble and nose-dive on one pile of fabric squares.

"Not on my fabric!" Lyn cries. Her shock at my fall instantly melts away and is replaced by rage. "I brought them to you, so you take good care of my babies. You have abused my trust by falling on them."

Next she pushes me away and ceremoniously packs her suitcases again. "There," she sneers at me triumphantly. "I gotta make the next plane, train, or bus, whichever...I'll let Charley and Mitch learn quilting. It is time I tamed those boys."

Right after Lyn leaves, hubby brings out every single piece of his clothing and scatters them all over the place, with flair. "Your friend Lyn is a genius," he says. "You, on the other hand, have no appreciation of an artistic, lived-in style of decoration."

I am short on the uptake, not wanting to be in my own house now, but his sarcasm is refreshing, too. Since his attitude and Lyn's momentary lapse have trained me in lightning speed, I look around me and wave at the mess as if it were a bosom buddy; then, I get up and go to the kitchen. Clownishly, I pour me some coffee, which I spill half of it on the tiles, but I shrug and go sit at my desk without picking up the spill.

There is much to be said about the lived-in kind of decoration. Maybe now, I can write that great American whatever.

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Prompt: There's a knock on your door. Hi. I ask, can I come in. You say yes, but then see my four suitcases. You tell me what happens ....
No worries, you've read my blog I am a tough old woman.