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KeUey 9 Janine KeUey The Fence Every separation is a link. Simone Weil Shadows of evergreen sway over the sun deck where my children color, lying on their bellies, their knees bent, their calves dangling in the air. Blue jays screech and slide through the sky, making more noise than the buzz saw. My neighbor is building a fence— cedar pickets, like giant Popsicle sticks frame his house. I turn on the stereo, hoping to drown the din slicing the quiet of this afternoon. It's Mozart—I think. My neighbor looks up, smiles, pushes back his safety glasses, and waves. Laughing, I sway into the sofa, continuing my knitting; the pastel yarn curving over my billowing smock. The doorbell rings. Sighing, I waddle to the door. It's the paper boy. 'Collect," he mumbles. I get my purse. Then unfold the paper on the kitchen counter, scanning the headlines. More news— of Soweto, of sanctions. The children argue over a red crayon. I break it in half, feeling like Solomon— wise, yet helpless. I can smooth Band-Aids on skinned knees, disarm draped clothing from chairs that look like monsters in the dark, 10 the minnesota review hug away the fear of lightning and thunder. But what of Beirut? Of bombs that forge firestorms, leaving only the shadows of children on crumbled walls? It's time to start dinner. I flour the chicken, lower the caged drumsticks sputtering into the grease. In the background—Mozart, a buzz saw. That night, my children, tumbled and tucked in bed, sleep. My husband's fingers braid mine, our palms feel the baby sway and stretch. In a recurring dream, the fence becomes a mother's arms, enclosing the yard, enclosing her children; while in the house, the long yarn of the afghan unravels. ...

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