Red Fence
I remember the red fence that surrounded our house. To us it was a barrier; a barrier we couldn't cross. A destination; to place we were perpetually traveling to. Its rust held stories of owners past, we wondered who had put it there; how long ago? Why? Was it to keep animals out, or to keep us in. To us, it was the latter, a protection we earned to pass, "one day," we said, "one day we will grow too big for this fence to hold us." We did grow, but not soon enough. If we were face with the fence today we would think nothing of it; of the memories it could hold, of the paths children could make to see it; to see the world beyond, a world without parents, a world without yelling or screaming, a world of harmony. Where a kid can grow up without thought of hiding from the world, instead embracing it. But most of all, I remember the journey, the journey we traveled to see it, through palo verde branches, and past jumping cholla, the odd snake that we would see and vow never to tell our parents in fear of losing the one place we could truly be free.