Home {Flash Fiction}

ImageEagerly, she plants her feet inside, hub-centered, as ready as possible for the oncoming assault on her senses.

At once she hears shouts of “Yellow Belly!” and the slap of Uno cards on the vinyl tablecloth; the obscenely loud ring of the telephone; the whiz of a ping pong paddle slicing the air from the direction of the summer kitchen.

She tastes fresh-baked pecan pie, sprinkled Christmas star cookies, and hand-cranked applesauce that (“I insist!”) goes with everything.  Her stomach rumbles.

She looks for the beckoning gallows of the next chalkboard hangman game; the calendar collection which magically multiplies joy with each duplicate date; his green rocker/brown pillow combo and her overflowing apron hook.

She sees all and none of it.

Nodding her head toward the stranger, her inner six-year-old smiles, “Thanks for the look around.”

Reluctantly, she lets go of the familiar slope of the screen door’s wrought iron handle, pleasantries pushing her back to the rental car.

They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.

*Today I am joining The Gypsy Mama’s Five Minute Friday writers for the first time.  The prompt: HOME.  This story was inspired by the {re}visit to my grandparents’ farmhouse that I hope to take one day.   


Dear New Friend

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Dear New Friend,

I see you over there, not knowing where to put your hands.  Once all of these other people go away, I’d love to come over and introduce myself.  Maybe even sit awhile.  Let’s freeze time together.

I’ve met my very best friends this way, during cold turkey, brave heart moments. Knowing it is of the Lord.

As I tug on my sweater I might tell you how I spent my weekend fumbling with power tools to build baby mobile centerpieces for a friend’s shower.  That, to my relief, none collapsed until the party had ended.

I might tell you that I clean my house by stuffing everything into my closet, or that I can’t decide how short to go for my next haircut.

I might tell you about growing up in the giant sandbox of Saudi Arabia and how any day below 70 degrees is Freezing Cold.

I might tell you how I finally trusted Jesus after a great heartbreak and giving up on the “try hard” life.

Or that I quit my fancy job as a lawyer to go on mission trips, completely freaking out my parents.

I might tell you about meeting my husband and our whirlwind romance of purple sunsets and Indian rooftops.

I might tell you I am currently selling a black leather hand-shaped chair, Step #749 in the five year process of transforming his former bachelor pad into Home Sweet Home.

I might tell you that the toddlers rolling on the floor over there are mine and, yes, they are always that active.

I might ask you if you are addicted to Starbucks (me too), if you read Kate Morton (me too), or if you consider a bowl of cereal a complete meal (me too).

After a long while, I might tell you that I love writing, how it forces me to think and sit still, how I use pen and paper, smearing ink all over my left hand.  How I scratch out, draw arrows, and, how once I’ve got it right, it feels carved there forever.  Which makes me so happy.

Or I might not.  But I truly hope that I would.

It’s so nice to meet you….