A gentle melancholy

Raindrops gingerly caress the old wooden walls, a cold kiss against the decaying monument. I sit inside motionless, listening to the barn creak and whine as the weather gently seeps into the cracks and warps it for what seems like the millionth time. With any luck, there’d be a million more.

Down in the valley to the south I can see the lights of houses flickering against tall pine trees, a puppet show as if for my own enjoyment. A sense of company is created, almost, by the knowledge I watch hundreds of souls eat, sleep and love. I compare the image briefly to the Allegory of the Cave, pondering again whether I’m clueless because I’m not infinite. I suppose that’s the cruelty of life; our own misery cannot be compared to the vastness of the world even when it feels like the cup might overflow and our soul might drain.

The barn doors creak again, a whisper of wind sliding slowly against my neck. I glance over to the flapping stall door and through it I spy my wife through the curtains. She laughs as a light flickers and I know that my son lies inside curled up on her lap, content and clueless. I’ve thought for a while that it's the gift of purity; no one can accuse you of being clueless because you are enveloped in a lack of understanding, shielding you from the worst that life has to offer. I pity those that have that blanket of innocence stripped from them before they are due.

Then again, what do I know; I’m just as clueless as everyone else.

A memory strikes me from years before; Beth and I taking refuge from a storm much like the one tonight. The cold seems less lonely when borne with another. She and I used to come up here every evening when we were young, bothering the farmer that once lived here. Days spent exploring the forest and nights spent cuddled together gazing through the cracks for the glimpse of Polaris. The hay was a perfect place to hide from other’s nosiness.

I wonder what she would’ve thought of Thomas.

But she went off into the world, losing her shackles of this small town and embracing a new life and a new Beth. Occasionally I’ll send her a message and she’ll regale with me tales of a case she’s uncovered or a bet she’s reigned victorious through. I get to live vicariously through her; I’m thankful I’m here but every now and then a stake will drive through my heart as I ask myself what kind of man I would’ve become if I’d followed her out into the human experience, rather than remaining here. Contentment within cowardice, I suppose.

Within my wife I see flickers of Beth’s younger self; infernos of anger that sweep up all around, furtive glances at me as she wonders if I’m in the mood and an impish giggle that surfaces when she gets blueberry pie coating her chin. That’s why I was drawn to my wife; melancholy grasps at youth merging with a love for the way my soul feels grounded in her presence.

A beam of lightning rains down from above, splicing heaven's gift into the soft earth. It illuminates the rain glistening in the night, a deadly kiss of beauty. For a moment I can see the mound in front of my feet, but it is fleeting. As I age I find it harder and harder to look at it.

The wooden cross I hand-carved ten years prior is caught in the blink and the light ephemerally dances around the name; Thomas Andrew Crieg. In the instant I see the name a flood of unlived memories bowls through my brain. Mirages of first days at school, gently holding him whilst he sobs and the gradual slipping through my fingers that is inevitable.

I should’ve demolished the barn when I bought this place. Maybe he’d still be alive.

Maybe I would’ve done if I wasn’t reminiscing about my youth.

Maybe I would’ve been a braver man if Beth hadn’t left.