A Lifetime Along the Fence Line

I thought the fence was only a fence.

Wood buried in the earth, wire holding the horizon together, the old world leaning against the new.

I passed it as a boy without knowing I was passing through someone else's hands.

My grandfather is gone. I don't remember his voice.

But the farm remembers.

His hands are still here, buried beneath the posts.

I became a father and learned the old language

work, patience, repair.

Now I look at that fence and understand.

A father does not always leave his name.

Sometimes he leaves a place strong enough for his children to lean against.