Childhood's End

The gate stands between the houses as it always had.

The paint’s peeling with the wood showing through like weathered bones, silvered and cracked, still guarding its hidden secrets behind rusting chains.

‘You go past that gate, me lad, and I’ll clip you such a whack you’ll wish you were never born,’ my father snarled, catching me climbing that gate when I was nine.

I’d sidle past, peering through the cracks of the frame, consumed by curiousity but never daring to cross that line. Whispered stories were told by torchlight of the horrors that might lay beyond those gates.

Eventually the mystery faded, became just another childish memory, put aside as college, girls and life, took precedence.

After my father’s funeral, the gate still beckons. Barely a trace of paint remains and the rusting chain, once so impressive to the boy I was, now looks frail and weak.

The wood feels dry and old to the touch. Guiltily, I push. The gate splinters and cracks. Moving closer to peer into the long forbidden zone, I feel the weight of an invisible hand upon my shoulder. I turn back.

Some mystery should remain at childhood’s end.