The front gate was wrought iron and it squeaked. Every building on the block had a gate and every gate had its own squeak. You could tell who was coming home by the sound of their gate. The Garcias had a high squeak. The Kowalskis had a low groan. Mrs. Patterson's gate screamed like it was being murdered. The front gate was the building's doorbell before there were doorbells. The gate announced you whether you wanted to be announced or not.

The front gate had a latch. A simple lever you pushed down with your thumb and the gate swung in. The latch wore smooth from a thousand thumbs. The metal kept the shape of the neighborhood's grip. You could feel the history in the latch the way you feel history in a handrail. Smooth is not new. Smooth is loved.

Kids swung on the front gate. They hung on it and rode it open and rode it closed and the hinges screamed and the super screamed and the kids kept swinging. The gate was a ride. The best ride on the block. Free. Available. Indestructible. The gate was built for security and the children turned it into a carnival. That is what children do to everything adults build. They find the joy the engineer missed.

The front gate kept nobody out. A waist-high piece of iron with a latch a child could open. The gate was a suggestion. The gate said this is where the sidewalk ends and the building begins. Please acknowledge the transition. The gate was a curtain, not a wall. It marked a boundary without enforcing it. The neighborhood understood the difference between a mark and a barrier. The gate was the mark.

They put buzzers on the gates. Then cameras. Then electronic locks that open with a fob. The gate does not squeak anymore. The gate does not announce you. The gate interrogates you. The old gate said welcome, you are expected. The new gate says prove you belong. The squeak was a greeting. The buzz is a challenge. The neighborhood lost its ear when the gates went silent.

See also: Iron Gate, Iron Railing