Tales of the Barb

I bought a gift for my child. For us. It is his name formed from barbed wire. It is a most fitting representation of him.

You may think that’s harsh – to say barbed wire is a match for my child. Think what you will. I know my child. I know my heart.

I look at this sculpture and I see the gentle curves arching their way through, like my child flowing through life, moving around obstacles. I see the pieces of wire knotted together, like the many facets of my boy intertwined and made stronger by the many parts working together. I find the smooth bits that change randomly to pointed parts, like my son who takes life in stride for so long until a part comes along that pricks at him, makes him perk up and take notice. He is my barbed wire.

He is beautiful, unassuming in his ways, but is strong when someone tries to push through him. He is fashioned so intricately, with a sharpness that is misunderstood unless you take the time to respect it. He is tricky for me to navigate at times if I don’t pay attention to the barbs – those bits that formed for protection and survival. But he is fiercely grounded in our partnership.

He is often misunderstood, maybe seen as something – someone – to be feared or questioned. But there is no foundation for fear. He bends and twists and points in order to protect. And he has learned to do it very well. I will forever be his fence post, wrapped in his love and barbs, anchoring us against the world.

When he opens this gift at the holiday, I hope he will see the joy in it that I do.

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