Rennie Court
Whenever I chose to climb over the fence, I’d find a broken board. Either completely separated from its post, or splintered at the spot where the nail secured it originally. About every fourth time there would be a large ripped end, there was bare wood like deep flesh glaring out of the white plank. It seemed hurt and poignant, even sometimes dangling like a horribly wrecked limb—jagged and abandoned—too agonized anymore to scream. For one whole week in October five years ago, I noticed that the fence was intact, no matter where I approached along more than its two-hundred foot length. It made me feel whole again and happy that order was restored. It was neat and reassuring, and I guess I needed that in the aftermath of my trip. Don must have fixed it.