The Fence Mender

Hunched over in the sun, the grizzled old man grumbled to himself. His fingers worked with practiced dexterity to manipulate the wire used for this task. The wiry grey curls of his hair stayed off his face, even as he bent and straightened and muttered, as if it knew better than to get in his way. 

“Damn kids cutting holes,” he said to the fence he mended. He took a step forward into the crisp leaves at the base of the fence to lean into his work. 

A secret kept perhaps even from himself, he took pride in his work, weaving the fresh wire to intertwine with the old - tethering and mending the unnatural openings that allowed people to pass through where they ought not. 

He knew that with time the weather would wear the shiny wire to match the matte darkened finish of the fence to which it was newly joined.

He knew, too, how to tuck the newly twisted end into its adjoining link, but with a sneer he purposefully left it sticking out. He imagined a teenager trying to climb the fence, getting caught on one of the snags he intentionally left behind. He imagined coming back after it had cut the stupid kid, leaving flesh and fabric on the sharp edge.

His sneer turned to a snicker as he sharpened the end of the wire with his cutters. That’ll teach those lousy kids who’re cutting holes in his fence. “It’s just, you know,” he said to the fence, his thick sun-browned fingers finishing their task, “they cut you, you cut them.”  

Despite all his grumbling, there was nowhere he’d prefer to be than weaving wire, repairing the links in the fence.