weeds and broken flower stems

Standing in my yard towers a white picket fence. The wood is cold and damp, and the off-colored paint starts peeling in zig-zagged streaks. Dirt cascades throughout in blotches, mold grows in between the ridges and weeds spring up around the bottom posts in clusters. The top points are slowly beginning to fall off, appearing as if the entire fence is going to fall any second.

The amount of damage I have caused to the fence is showing. It is an image I wish I could forget.

The first time I met the fence, I was young and scared, shielding myself off from the specks of paint he rubbed off on me. But I was still reckless. I welcomed him with open arms, engulfing his lumber and feeling his smooth and polished texture sink into my thumbs. I painted his planks with care, being careful not to let a single drop of paint fall on the grass. I did not want the story of his beginning to be marked on the ground for somebody to trample over.

I can still feel the same sense of accomplishment as when we put him up. He stood tall and strong, as if nothing in the entire world could ever bring him down. He towered over the flowers below, standing his ground proudly. It did not matter that he had a few cracks already – he appeared to be fine. I disregarded the way he leaned slightly to the left, for – after all – he was still standing. He added a sense of protection that I had not felt till then, the foreign feeling making my heart play hopscotch in my chest.

That fence was my best friend. He was there in the morning when I would run in the yard and try to catch a butterfly, my worn-down tennis shoes gliding on the grass. He was there when my soft and pale elbows would scrape the top of the concrete, the sound of my crying cascading throughout the yard. He was there when I would jump as high as the clouds to try and reach a tree branch, my short legs always falling back to the ground.

As I got older, he served as more than that. He let me rest my back against his wood, supporting me when I was not there to support myself. He let me blow bubbles through his cracks, knowing that the popping sound always brought joy to my ears. He let me cry against him, my knees up to my chest and my head rested on his planks, and he would supply a sense of comfort that I never thought I would ever feel without him.

He stood at every birthday, every spelling bee, every firework show. He saw my pitfalls but was always there to help build me back up. He was never afraid to lend a helping hand.

It did not matter that him and I were unable to communicate through words – we were able to hold conversations that could fill dictionaries. It did not matter that he always felt so distant from where I sat, that no matter how close we were, he always felt a million worlds away; we still sat under the same sky. We still looked up at the same stars. We felt the same wind, my arms tangling through his cracks to supply the warmth only he knew how to give. We saw the same glimmer in the moon as it peaked through the clouds, shining down at our beautiful silhouette. It is hard to find someone who can understand the words you have yet to let fall out of your mouth, but it is even harder to find someone who sees the same sky as you.

I never had to think about whether he would stay – he was always there. Until he wasn’t.

Fences are made to surround your house and to protect what is inside. You can let your dog out without worrying that it might run away. You can tell your children to open the door and play without being afraid of them wandering outside the yard. You can plant flowers and guarantee that a car will not come racing by and knock them down. The fences ensure your safety. They protect you and your belongings. They build up a sense of security and confinement.

People often begin to become dependent on the fence.

But soon, you forget the fence. You grow so used to its companionship that you do not give it a second thought. You do not worry if the fence is still standing – you know it is. You know that the fence can handle any hurricane that passes by, for he is the strongest you have ever met. You never think about the fence’s physical state – as long as it is standing, it is doing its job. It is still blocking out the world around it. After all, a thin wall is still a wall.

You do not worry if the fence will be there in the morning. You already know it will.

But fences can break, too.

Maybe the fence wanted to stay. Perhaps the fence was connected to the right house at the wrong time. After time, maybe the fence just wasn’t the type to protect. Or he wanted to be a pilot, soaring around the sky, and gazing at the world around him. He longed to be flying around as free as a bird, with no clip on his wings imprisoning him to the ground. He had dreamt of being a teacher, or a lawyer, or a doctor. Maybe the fence was destined to be your fence and nothing more - just somebody there to hold up and guard your walls. Or he found a better yard, one with brighter flowers and greener grass. Maybe he simply did not want to be your fence anymore.

Maybe he couldn’t stay. Maybe he shouldn’t.

When he fell, I was there to pick up his scattered and cracked wood. I was there to try and heal his wounds, bandage by bandage. I was too hurt to cry, for I knew that no number of tears would bring back the one thing that made me feel whole again. I knew that I couldn’t save the fence, no matter how hard I knew I would try, the realization bringing tears to my eyes.

You can’t fix something that started off broken.

I lost myself when trying to save him. I was too busy trying to put back together his broken planks that I didn’t feel the number of splinters he was giving me. I was so concerned with reapplying his paint that I didn’t notice how the bristles on my brush were breaking. I wanted to put him back together so bad that I didn’t care if I fell apart in the process.

And yet here I am, decomposing and letting my wood crumble to the ground. Noticing my paint slowly chip away but no longer having the brushes to bring back my color. I couldn’t stand much longer, for he took all my strength.

My wood is creaking with every draft of wind. I'm crumbling– decaying faster with every thought and idea that I try to block out. The grass at the soles of my shoes is growing taller and taller by the minute, and soon, I might crumble. I might be covered with weeds and bare flower stems, too.

Comments