The beholder’s eye
Shoving the vacuum into its home in the hall closet, I stifled a groan. A half-
day of housework behind me and I still wasn’t ready for the out-of-state
company expected any very soon minute. My four small children whirled
through, leaving a wake of toys, crumbs and stray shoes scattered across the
recently trackless carpet.
And then I saw it: the sliding doors of the family room. The ones I had
washed and scrubbed earlier that morning. Generous finger streaks and tiny
nose prints mottled the freshly polished glass panes. And that looks like...
Frowning, I stepped nearer and bent for a closer inspection. Why, it is!
Peanut butter and Oreo cookies smudged all over. Those kids! Near tears, I
plopped onto the couch and grabbed the jangling phone. “Hello?” I growled.
“Hello, dear,” gently answered my mother from her own couch a state away.
“Are you busy?”
“Oh, you have no idea!” I said, exasperated. “We’re expecting guests, and I
just can’t seem to get all the housework caught up around here, and the
kids...”
“That reminds me,” she interrupted. “I should do some of my own.
Housework, that is. The mirror above the couch is smeared. But, you know,
every time I look at the sweet baby prints your little ones left there last
month, I can’t bring myself to wipe them away. In fact, I’m still showing
them off to my friends as ‘priceless artwork’!”
My gaze ping-ponged around the room. A half-eaten cracker here, wadded
socks there, tilting towers of picture books in the corner. I grinned.
Crowning it all was a hand-painted masterpiece on the patio doors.
Unnumbered. One-of-a-kind. My own piece of priceless artwork.
- Carol McAdoo Rehme
