Barn | Chelsea Trump

She walked along a dusty path and a weed stuck in her long skirts. She bent down to untangle the weed and when she straightened, the old family barn stood in front of her. The suddeness of this lonely structure looming above the woman shocked her. She had been staring at her scuffed black boots and hadn't even realized where they were taking her.

The woman took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The old weathered wood squeaked on its hinges. Inside, the barn was musty and a few hay bales were still stacked in the back corner.

Memories began creeping into the woman's head, but one in particular stood out. He was ten and had stolen his father's gun. He had shot a bird in this barn. When it fell to the ground, he scooped it up and ran to his mother. She had to tell him that she couldn't fix it. Through the kitchen window, she watched him bury it. It was the only time she remembered seeing him cry.

Standing in the middle of the barn, she heard planes flying overhead and explosions in the distance. The swirling vortex of a chaotic world had all ready forgotten him, but she was stuck in the center and felt the dead calm all around. She would never forget.