But Outward Gives Me Time

Yesterday the wooden garage door broke. It sprained, splintered, and then split right down the middle, causing the two halves to sit at an unnatural angle. There was barely any space in between them really, it just meant that we couldn't open it until we got it fixed, because it would be impossible to close that way. Simple enough! So we called the garage door repairman, who, I would hope, specializes in repairing garage doors.
But then there's what happened next. Next, Mom opened the garage door. I had let her alone for the one minute it took me to put my bag in the kitchen, when I turned around to see her stressing in the doorway.
"What?" I said, walking into the garage. But then there's what I saw. I saw, to my disappointment, the world. A world which should have been very much hidden from staring me in the face by my spraining, splintered, and split garage door.
"Why'd you open it?" I said.
Mom wouldn't look at me.
"I just couldn't do it," she said. "I had to" mumble "with the" mumble mumble "and I" mumble cough.
"Of course."
Without speaking, Mom and I planted ourselves on the driveway, facing our problem.
"We could try and close it," she said.
"Humph," I said.
She tried the remote. The garage door tried back, truly it did. It never found us harmful or in any way frightening, and so it attempted to please us, but even a wooden garage door cannot always please everyone. It groaned, and grated, and gave up.
Mom tried again. And again. As if the poor door wasn't in enough turmoil, she continued to press the button, watching as the two halves struggled outward instead of inward. Finally she stopped.
We continued to sit side by side, Indian style, staring at our problem.
"We could pray," she suggested.
No answer.
"We could glue stick," I suggested.
"Scotch tape?" she asked.
"We could rally all the spiders from the back porch and have them spin their webs down the crack," I suggested.
"What about vanilla frosting?"
"Why not chocolate pudding?"
"Hair conditioner?"
"Moisturizer?"
"No. Now I'm just hungry and aware of my dry knuckles," Mom said.
Here's what happened then. Then, I looked at Mom, and I looked at the door, and I said "We could sew it back together."
She didn't say no. She didn't say yes. She just let it sit. And I decided I liked the way it crossed its legs. I went inside and grabbed Mom's needles and her thread from the cupboard above the fridge. I removed the stepladder from the garage. I climbed, I sewed. Mom sat Indian style watching me for as long as it took. By the time I got to the bottom, the middle of the door looked like a misfit rainbow. I hadn't enough of one color to go all the way down, but it was acceptable.
"Close it," I said.
Mom stood up. She dusted off her pants. She fixed her hair. She walked up to the open garage door, looked to her right at me, shrugged her round shoulders, picked up the remote, and pushed the button.
The door shivered. We backed away. The door shook. We sat down where we stood. The door descended. We dared not move. The door shuddered to a close. We breathed.
Mom and I sat there for some time, appreciating the multi-colored threads making their debut down our wooden door.
"What if it falls apart at the seams?" Mom asked.
"What if a crow picks at the threads?" I asked.
"What if a burglar has scissors?"
"What if you open it again?"
Mom scratched her nose. She redid her hair. She took a rock out of her shoe.
"What if I do?" she asked.
I sighed. I played with my ring. I fixed the tie on my shirt.
"Can't we just watch a movie, instead, Mom?"
"Yeah. I guess."