He would have been so disappointed in me for how I handled the situation. As progress continues, I see myself so boxed in —in my backyard— where I could once breathe freely; today, I feel like a prisoner.
Where the old fence stood, my tiny piece of that foundation is filled with huge fence posts. Where my roses grew and bloomed, too. I stood my ground, but it wasn’t enough to protect it —maybe because many things need changing after so many years.
It doesn’t matter how I feel about the change because my feelings don’t matter; where once my gingers grew, the fence has been rooted, and I am gutted to see so much change in a short time. My heart aches with all the fond memories of the jasmine tree-perfumed backyard—now no more.
Maybe it won’t be the same anymore because I am so afraid of losing all our time here—it won’t ever be the same.
Some changes may be good, or maybe because I miss him after twenty-five years here. Changes mean losing him all over again.
A few months ago, there was a verbal confrontation over one piece of fence coming off to be fixed, but it turned out that my backyard had become dirt. My space, where I had lived all my life, had become my own prison cell.
Now
Where the gingers once grew, fence posts stand now — silent, and cold.
I will never look at the fence the same way again, yet this ground still remembers me.
Maybe one day, I’ll replant something new there—not to forget, but to remind myself that even broken soil can bloom again.
DJFP
