It’s one of those dark mansions, it’s almost a mansion, with these rustic, reclaimed barnwood slats that have this just-been-rained-on sheen, so they’re kind of a wet color. The windows are all framed in black, the glass overlaid with rows of Georgian ornamental work, symmetrical, stunning, unassuming.
Outlining the barnwood mansion hunches a winding calliope of branches and vines, rocketing in stillness, vying for sky in fluorescent green. The fence is a quiet explosion of life for 150 square feet. It calms me at first, even though its presence is a surprise. Behind it, the mansion is daunting, massive, an accomplishment, a claim on good fortune. By contrast, the fence is imbalanced, held together by mercy, by determination, it’s patternless, directionless, simply living as nature demands.
When I get to the house, it starts to rain.The afternoon has been swept away by an avalanche of storm clouds and wind. By 5:30, the gray clouds are a wash of black. I nudge open the braided gate and crunch over the September leaves to the front steps. All twelve of them. Leading to the door. Where I will knock in moments. Where I will present myself to a yellow living room with gold balloons and explain the events of my life as they are on this particular day, this September evening, after a slap-in-the-face of a Saturday, and leave that particular imprint on the guests. Oh, good to see you!
It’s time to knock. I look back at the beautiful fence. Then my knuckles descend. My arrival is quickly noted and there are eager footsteps coming for me.
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