What the fence contains

The playground was different—

new equipment,

different kids,

different everything.

But the fence was the same.

Still chain-link.

Still marking the boundary

between inside and outside,

between the place where children

are allowed to be

and the rest of the world.

Rust was forming

in the diamond shapes,

brown creeping through the metal,

slow and deliberate,

eating the fence

from the inside out.

I ran my finger along the edge,

felt the rough texture,

the places where the rust

had raised the metal,

had made it sharp,

had turned something soft

into something that could cut.

How long had the fence been here?

Longer than the equipment, probably.

Longer than most of the kids

who played inside it.

Everything else had changed—

the rubber playground surface

had been replaced,

the swings were new,

the slide was taller.

But the fence remained,

holding everything in,

keeping everything out,

slowly rusting,

slowly falling apart,

still standing.

I wondered if the fence knew

it was dying,

if it understood

that the rust was eating it,

that eventually

it would fall,

would no longer contain

anything.

But for now,

it stood,

and the kids played inside,

and the rust

kept spreading.