There are fences everywhere, I said, staring out the car window. She leaned forward, glanced at the streets she already knew. They don't really have yards, I said, and she nodded. Probably want to keep dogs out, she told me. But they don't even have grass in most of them, I protested, and she shrugged.
What were they really trying to do? I wondered to myself. Were they trying to keep something out? Or were they trying to keep something in?
Maybe, I realized, it was both. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep things away. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep themselves in. Maybe they didn't know how to give themselves freely to their neighbors, and receive the gift of another person. Maybe they'd been burned too many times to tear down the barriers. Maybe no one ever taught them to live without fences.
And suddenly I was so aching-proud of her, this golden country girl who loved open land, living in this cramped-up city so full with fenced-off yards, bringing her fenceless heart and giving it without shame . . .
Maybe somehow, I pray, she will teach those around her to do the same.
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