A Canvas Door

Swish swish. The wet white paint embraced the wood fibers of the door. The little girl with honey hair bit her lip as her father's hand gently led hers in swift motions across the oak.

"Now make sure you spread the paint evenly, that way it will dry nicely and be very smooth."

The girl said nothing, just carefully continued the strokes while her father coached and praised. He tenderly let her small fist go free, and she readjusted to compensate the loss of weight.

"You are such a big helper! Now your door will look like it's brand new!"

Still the small girl said nothing, but gave a small smile in token that she had heard him. In her mind she was preparing a canvas. She'd watched her older sister plastering an old canvas with a new white covering in order to start over fresh and new. She understood that the door to her room would be able to tell stories one day. Each slam of anger, each click of protest, each twisted knob would create a painting of her life as she shut things out and welcomed others in. The door would protect her and betray her, it signified beginnings and endings and everything in between.

"There! All done! Now remember, you don't color on the door!"

Perhaps not in crayon, she thought, but her heart would never stop painting stories over that bright new canvas.