The gate remains.
The fence is gone, gone long ago, but the gate remains.
I prefer it closed, which I know is absurd.
But there is solidity in a closed gate, there is definition.
From the street, the open gate invites travelers, passersby, to enter. To come up the driveway, past the house, into the sanctuary of the back.
I dislike travelers moving into my space, my haven.
So I close the gate, as I close drawers and push chairs under tables and straighten pictures. Because that is the truth of them, that is their proper resting place.
As is mine. Resting in place. Solaced in the angle of repose.