Hinge

I imagine myself as a hinge.  I am firmly planted, one foot in this world, familiar, and understood.  But the other is planted on a side only understood as "other."  This other world is unfamiliar.  It is a mystery.  It is comfortable, and unnerving.  It consoles me even as it upsets me with it's unpredictability.  But it burns through holes in the fence boards.  

I am the hinge.  If you stand close enough you can see through the knuckles.  If I can reach you I will grab you and swing you through the gate.  I'll be on the other side too.  I'll look different, but it's still me, the hinge.  I just swung you around the place where my feet are planted.

I live on the pivot.  I am strapped to the fence post and I swing and move with the gate.  Sometimes I resist.  Sometimes I groan or squeak irritatingly.  Occasionally, the gate is pulled just so and it flows open.  Usually not.

From where I am I can see bits of both sides.  But I can't explain either side very well.

It's not a job, at least not as I reckon jobs.  It's not a job as much as it is my place.  Where I am is what I do is who I am is what I like is how I do what I know I must.