ERIC ROMERO
Artist
Santa Fe, New Mexico
I thought the fence was only a fence. Wood buried in the earth, wire holding the horizon together, the old world leaning against the new. I passed it as a boy without knowing I was passing through someone else’s hands. My grandfather is gone. I don’t remember his voice, but the farm remembers. His hands are still here, buried beneath the posts. I became a father and learned the old language — work, patience, repair. Now I look at that fence and understand. A father does not always leave his name. Sometimes he leaves a place strong enough for his children to lean against.
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This article appeared in the November 2026 print edition of the magazine with the headline “#IAMTHEWEST.”
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