THE TELL-TALE WREATH

I have a small wreath that I usually put on a hook somewhere in the house, hanging off the back of an outside door or off the front of an inside door.  This year we have broken all of the hooks clean off the inside doors.  This leaves me with two options: put the wreath away until next year, or hang the wreath on the hook outside.

It's the holiday season, so I secure the wreath to the front door (the outside), make certain that it's not going to blow away, then smile at how great my little wreath will look to people driving down the opposite street who can see my door from a distance.

Spread some holiday cheer, right?

Well ... sometime during the night, the weather takes a nasty turn.  The wind whips up like crazy, the temperature plummets, and the cold night rattles the windows a bit.  This is all fine and well (it happens a lot because I live in a bit of a wind tunnel), until about four o'clock in the morning.

I am awakened by what sounds like tapping or scratching on the front door.

I try to go back to sleep, but the noise is infuriating.  It's incessant and it sounds like drumming on my brain.  I suddenly feel like Poe's hapless anti-hero in "The Tell-Tale Heart"; I'm slowly going insane listening to the noise (although in truth I have been awake for probably ninety seconds, if even).

As my brain cells catch up to my wakened state, I deduce that the noise must be the wreath, scratching back and forth on the metal door in concert with the howling wind outside.  Rather, I hope and pray that the noise is from the wreath and not from some creepy person or animal trying to get into my house.  No matter, because if I don't stop the noise, I will never get back to sleep, and I have one more precious hour before I need to be up for the day.

Much like ripping up Poe's floorboards in an attempt to rid the thumping, I half-heroically, half-terrifyingly throw open the front door.  I am greeted with darkness and frigid wind that doesn't bode well with my t-shirt and flannel pajama pants (I know ... sexy, right?).  It is a gesture, however, that allows me enough time to grab the wreath, wrestle with my handiwork of attaching it to the hook so it wouldn't blow away, and toss the icy decoration across the den floor.

I shut the front door quietly, lock it tightly against fear and weather, then pick up the holiday wreath from the floorboards that, unlike Poe's heart, is no longer driving me insane.