Barn | Christie Fordham

It is the home of horses, cows, dogs and a scene of a young man working. I remember a time when I could walk to the doors and watch my son playing in the hay. It was refreshing because I knew that he wasn’t out causing trouble to our neighbors. The red paint is now flaking from the side of this sturdy building, and even through everything that has happened on this farm, that barn has stayed strong, unchanging.

It is about thirty feet tall and caked with memories. Such as the time when it was grandpa’s 80th birthday and we all hid in the barn. Or the summer barbeques that ended in a stick pull in the rafters. Time goes by so fast, if only we could just embrace what it has to give us. Through out my life, the barn has been a sanctuary. At any time you could walk through here and catch a family member just thinking. Sitting there, taking in their surroundings. It’s where Jake got his first kiss, and where Sarah realized that she could no longer be a little girl any more. This barn heals souls. Here I sit, looking at the pole with the strangely organized marks up the side of it. By each line there is a name and a number signifying the age and height of each person’s mark. I remember the time when grandma lost pa and tried to run away from the world. We could always find her right here.

If just anyone walked onto this farm and looked at this barn, I’m sure they wouldn’t be very impressed. It’s not a whole lot to look at if you’re not part of the family. It’s simply just a plain barn that needs fixing. The way I look at it is we can’t fix anything in the past, so why should we fix what our past is centered around?