He lifts the last stone of the evening, his aging hands easing it into place with the others. He is working near the shore in darkness, a sliver of moonglade upon the water. A lantern, a cup of whiskey. He is thinking of her. He is always thinking of her.
One over two, two over one.
He shifts the stone sideways, wedging it deeper. The lantern flickers, its kerosene light lambent and diffusive upon the fretwork of cedar trees. Black shapes against blue, their fragrant silhouettes stir alongside him as he works.
One over two, two over one.
He sips his whiskey, nods to his dog. Tonight, the cold, rough limestone centers him, centers his thoughts. The weight of his work pulls at the sinew of his upper arms, his neck, his back. It draws his shoulders down into his chest. When he sets each stone into place, pushes it against others, he is free; he is whole. This, his work, is his connection to the earth—to the sand, the water, reality.
It has been this way for five decades. He scours the peninsula, collecting stones. Rubble limestone, discarded fieldstone, beach stone—it doesn’t matter which. In fifty years’ time he's grown au fait in the properties of each, able to coax beauty from even the most common dull gray stone solely from its placement within his beautiful, complicated morass.
He is building a stone fence. He’s always been building a fence. Someday, he thinks, it will be done. One day, he hopes, she'll return.
One over two, two over one.
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