This evening, my husband is walking the perimeter of our rental property and installing chicken wire over the gaps in our failing white picket fence. He has chosen the best time of day for this labor. Sun glazes the delicate new maple leaves and the unmowed grass and the marbled hastas planted along the line. In the yard, our dog romps back and forth, his tongue lagging from heat. He jumps up on sections of rotting fence, sending them slinging.
From where he is bent walling in the irises, my husband removes an ear bud and smiles at me and our two-month old, who I hold across my chest.
“Good fences make good neighbors,” he says. Continue reading