Their Gate

 

Grandpa never made a gate that wasn’t painted.

Red or white, brown or that awful blue he loved.

If it had a cross bar, a horseshoe crowned it.

Latches were never the same twice, hand made.

 

Grandma loved her gates, hated climbing fences.

She thought they all should be closed and straight.

Gates to the garage, the garden and to the lawn.

She planted flowers and stones to frame them.

 

I don’t remember seeing them hug or kiss much.

Theirs wasn’t the era and they were too private.

I do know there was love though, deep and true.

Because it shone through when I saw their gates.

 

He held it open, she glided through like a dancer.

He checked the latch was closed, and clicked,

and she smiled at the sound knowing he cared.

They leaned over them sometimes and talked.

 

I can’t see a painted gate, or an old metal frame,

without thinking of them and their gates.

The gates that frame my memories of them,

frame the memories of their live and their love.

 

I don’t know if it is a farmer thing but even my husband adores gates and loves to have them painted and latched in unique ways.  I think gates are a part of our love too…we spend a lot of time leaning over, opening or closing gates.  

For the With Real Toads Sunday Challenge.

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