Barn | Elyse Georgeson

It was almost as if I could see them again, mucking out the barn together. But it was only my old eyes playing tricks on me. No more would I see either of them out there, taking care of the animals, or going out on horseback to “check the fences.” As much as I could wish them back again, they won’t come back.

I had paused in my packing, to look out the window. I shouldn’t have done that. Now I have to get out a tissue and wipe my eyes before I can resume. I don’t want to leave this place where I raised my family. But I have no choice. My daughters all married and live far away. Our son, who was supposed to take care of the farm, is no longer able to do so. If that weren’t enough, the day the news of my son came my husband had a heart attack. I have no one here now to take care of, or to take care of me.

The barn seems like it’s sharing in my grief. The paint is peeling—it no longer looks cheery and useful. The paint is peeling; it’s been so long since we’ve been able to paint it. It doesn’t matter now. All the animals are gone; I had to sell them to move to my daughter’s house, several miles away. The only things left inside that barn are a few old bits of leather, besides all the straw for the stalls. After so many years of hearing the nickers, the moos, the baas, and the clucking from the animals, it’s so quiet. All I can hear now is the wind whispering through the cracks in the barn. It’s a lonely, mourning sound.

I must get back to packing. I don’t have much more to do. Just a few last photos and other odd knickknacks, and I’m ready. Though I won’t ever be ready to leave my home.