The Rusty Gate

The rusty latch clicks lazily as the gate swings shut. Time and the elements have taken their toll on this sentinel to the yard.

It has seen families come and go and children grow up with what seemed sonic speed. As the years passed, the old gate’s hinges began to slip a little, lowering the frame downward.

But, still it stood as proud as the rotting wood post would allow.

Just to the side of the aging gate, a rose bush with delicate pink roses, intertwined the barbed wire that kept the cows in the pasture from dining on the flowers in the yard. A bit further down, an old Oak tree lifted its branches heavenward as though giving thanks.

Everything about the old home place was showing its age, if one cared about such things. But, to me it was home.

The rusty gate closing behind me meant I’d arrived home safe and just inside the front door I’d find my parents, my siblings, my loved ones—–if only that were true.

Time has moved on and all that remains is this aging house surrounded by aging fences and run down fields and fond memories— and this one lonely rusty old gate.


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