fortyfour

The old fence started at the house and went on for miles, and my hand met every inch of it that day. Its white paint was splintered with the wood. I think I picked a splinter out with every third step.

The house, I had found it that way. The dress, the one-legged teddy bear, the flintlock that hadn't been fired since before the Civil War. I was twelve.

And all the stories I'd told before and all the ones I've told since aren't enough to explain why I had to leave that morning.