There is a gate in my fence. The hinges are like new. The gate is always open.
It’s a white picket fence festooned with fragrant honeysuckle blooms. The constant buzz of bumble bees fills the air. It is a comforting sound of home. Neighborhood children play in my yard. The sounds of their laughter drown out the bee’s song. My neighbor visits with an arm full of fresh picked flowers from her garden. I thank her and invite her in for some homemade lemonade.
I also have a chicken wire fence. Not for chickens, but for my vegetable garden. Vibrant memories of my child self by my grandfather’s side eating peas from the pod and slurping ripe tomatoes fresh from the vine fill my every sense.
In the back yard there is a slat fence. It keeps my two retrievers safe. I have one of those ball shooters. One dog will play for hours, the other just watches. These are the happiest of my days.
Down the road it is a ranch fence. The kind used to keep horses in. The majestic creatures roam freely within the field: Green grass as far as I can see. Sun glints off their rust colored coats and the wind blows their manes as they run.
Now I sit on the porch and watch as my neighbor waves from a safe distance. She doesn’t bring me fresh cut flowers from her garden. She doesn’t come in for homemade lemonade. The neighborhood children don’t come to play. The vegetable garden has become a reminder of my loss. My dogs would rather sleep than play. Maybe they sense my despair. I don’t go to see the horses anymore. We have become products of Covid-19. Isolated and alone.
There is a gate in my fence. The hinges are like new. The gate is closed.