Barn | Tyler Cook

The seat to his ‘55 had never been very comfortable, but at times it seemed his only refuge. It was a beat up old truck, but it ran. Quickly he wiped away a tear, leather hands scratching his skin. The sun was just starting to rise as he stared out the window in silence, watching the golden light break over the hills. Even out here he was afraid to cry, afraid that he might lose composer. He had to be strong. Someone had too. It certainly wasn’t going to be his wife.

Pushing open the door, the old rancher stepped from his truck, the mud cracking on his weathered boots as they touched the ground. He shuffled off toward the barn, breathing in the crisp morning air. He wanted to cry. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream at the top of his lungs, but he wouldn’t. Angrily, he fought to subdue the pressure in his eyes.

The barn was plain, and ugly, but then it never needed to be more than functional. He had never painted it, never had it varnished. It looked very old now, and gray. The sealant had worn off, leaving the boards unprotected to the morning dampness. It would rot if he wasn’t careful. Slowly, he stepped inside, the strong musty smell of the alfalfa enveloping him in the darkness. Then, pulling the leather gloves from the back pocket of his jeans and fitting them snuggly to his hands, the old rancher reached out for the closet bale of hay. He heaved it to his waist with a mighty jerk, and started to turn back to his truck. He stopped. Something had fallen to the ground. A baseball, he noticed, almost instantly. Scuffed and well used. The red stitch work was frayed in places and the leather was pealing back. He smiled just a little, and returned to his truck, lugging the bale of hay. He had to feed the cows.