Barn | Sarah Gibbs

The children stood in the loft of the bright sunny barn. The air was filled with their laughter and shrieks. Fresh clean hay covered the compacted dirt floor and the musty smell of cows mingled with the scent. Sunlight poured in the west window in the late afternoon striping the loft and the children’s legs.

Walt Smith watched them play as he cleaned out the cow pens. They were swinging from the loft on a thick frayed rope to the tall soft straw pile piled near the open door. He grinned at his own memories of swinging from the very spot many a time as a child. He looked down and continued his work.

Suddenly the screams became not those of play, but the terrified screams of a frightened child. Walt whirled around and his eyes shot upwards just in time to see his son James, his precious only child, tumble head over heal from the loft. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he lunged across the barn. A slow shout escaped his lips and echoed through the vastness. James’ head and shoulders struck the ground a few moments before Walt could reach him.

Panting Walt sat straight up in bed. He looked wildly around and tried to regain his composure. After a few panicked moments he swung his legs of the side of his bed and flipped on the bedside lamp. From a beneath his bed he pulled a box. Reaching inside he removed a small black box and a folded American flag. Slowly he opened the box and turned over the Purple Heart. He let his gnarled finger trace slowly the words, James Walter Smith. It was a long time before Walt could return to sleep.