Mendin Fences

I mend fence for a living, but I ain’t fixed the one that matters. The wire stretches out like a scar across this land, and most days, my hands don’t feel like mine anymore... callused, cracked, barbed wire bit deep across the knuckles, rosebush caught me reachin where I shouldn’t’ve. Still... none of it hurts like the hollowness in my chest where my little girl used to rest. She’s seven months now. Last I saw her, she was a whisper wrapped in a blanket, breathin against my ribs like she already knew my heart was hers. Now I ride fence lines hopin the wind might carry me a thread of her laughter, some proof she still smiles like me. Her mama don’t talk much anymore. The silence between us is wider than this pasture. I try not to hate her for it... I reckon she’s guardin the only soft thing she’s got left. Still… I’d give every busted knuckle, every rough mile, just to feel those tiny fingers wrap around my thumb again. You don’t know what soft is til you’ve held your own blood in your arms. I thought I was tough. I thought I’d felt pain. But it ain’t a broke rib or a rank bronc that humbles a man... it’s the sound of a baby you can’t sing back to sleep. I don’t sleep much these days. Not cause of work. I just keep hearin her in my dreams, and I wake up reachin for someone who ain’t there. But I keep mendin. Every busted post, every saggin line... some part of me hopes that if I fix enough, maybe God will hand me back what I lost. Or maybe she’ll grow up and find her way through all this wire, back to these hands... rough as they are, but still reachin, still rememberin what love feels like pressed soft against your chest, breathin steady... like hope.