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"Come right in!" You hear my voice float out the open window of my heart as you approach, and then I appear beside the linen curtains, giving you a welcoming wave. A refreshing breeze blows out the window from the inside, making the gauzy curtains billow a little and the air surrounding my heart smell inviting and slightly sweet, like orchids in May. "I've got the kettle on for tea," I add, and you see me move away from the window toward the door, presumably to meet you as you enter.

From the sidewalk outside my heart, you can see that a golden glow like sunlight brightens the interior. In the same way as the breeze, the light pours through the open window, adding warmth and vibrancy of color to the vicinity. You smile, and glance through the window. In the living room, a tall and well-filled bookcase stands guard over a round, cozy room. An ivy sits atop the bookshelf, green leaves spilling down over the titles. Beside the shelf, a guitar is leaned outside its case against the plush armrest of a sofa, and a few music sheets are strewn across the couch's seat. A small coffee table in the middle of room bears an open journal, an uncapped pen, and a half-drunk glass of water atop a homemade crocheted coaster. Eagerly, you head up the front steps toward the door. Then your head cocks to one side.

Where a brass doorknob should be placed, there is a round head of prickly cactus. Sage green, white tipped, and dangerous-looking, it startles you. "Um," you hesitantly lift your hand to give the door a light rap, and chuckle, "wanna let me in?"

"Oh, it's not locked," you hear me reply. "Make yourself at home." The sound of retreating footsteps follows a water kettle's shrill whistle into the kitchen. You wait a beat, then push on the door. Of course, it doesn't budge. It may not be locked, but it is latched. The doorknob -- the cactus -- is going to need to be turned.

A ginger poke reveals that this cactus is NOT all bite, no bark. Wincing, you cradle your wounded fingertip. "Elle..." you call, and knock again, a bit harder this time. "Would you mind opening it up for me?"

"Why?" I sound bemused, unworried, distracted by my tea-making. "It's open."

"It's not... open. It's, I can't..." You sigh. "Is this the only way in?"

"Yes." My voice has quieted to a more serious tone, almost watchful. Waiting. My heart holds its breath. What are you going to do?

"Okay..." you say softly. You're not walking away. You're wrapping your hand around that cactus-head, and turning it. Then, as the door swings in, your sparkling eyes are laughing down at me. "I gotta get you a new doorknob," you comment.

I burst out laughing. "Please do. I trust you to pick out a good one. I might still need some help getting the old one off, though."