Barn| Karalee Dearden

I stare longingly at the old red barn off in the distance. The paint is peeling, the doors no longer close right, and animals have not lived in it for many years. But it is full of memories. Memories of a small boy watching his father milk the cows, or climbing to the loft and laying in the hay, telling me of his day at school. Memories of that same boy sneaking out to the barn to try his first cigarrette, or to kiss a girl for the first time.

These are the happy memories I have of this barn. They are far from the troubling thoughts and memories I now carry with me. Now, I think of the carefully folded triangle of fabric they gave me. And everything about that barn reminds me. The lingering scent of hay in the loft, the peeling paint, the broken doors. They all scream that things will never be the same again. So I stay in the house, and save the repairs for another day.