I found myself outside walking around the hill and reminiscing about days of old. I toured the fence line around the house and remembered the horses galloping in the pasture. Time and weather had warped the boards and several had fallen and lay rotting on the ground. The fence was a Theseus’s ship of mountain architecture, having managed to survive for twenty or more winters, albeit solely on the foundation of resolve assiduously maintained by my mother. She had been the caretaker and warden of Ben Hennom: with rare exceptions, nascent life grew and flourished in her care against the odds; old life persevered for her out of simple respect. Such was the life of this old fence. Now, in her absence, its spirit had fled.