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Caught on the Breeze

One more favor...

By Samantha A.R.WeaverPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
9
Caught on the Breeze
Photo by Lori Ayre on Unsplash

The rotting wood and moldy hay entered my nose and danced its way down my throat, lingering on my tongue. Scrunching my nose, my eyes watering slightly, I continued, walking in the direction of the barn. The grass seemed like a jungle, growing uninterrupted around the entire building. I could see the corner of the barn poking out from the tall grass, its white paint completely chipped off. As I got closer, I moved around toward the entrance and was met with the looming, locked doors of the barn. What I could only assume was once a vibrant red paint that covered the entirety of the barn, was now faded and almost brown in shade. A vibrantly white piece of paper hung on the door and in bold red letters it read ‘To Be Demolished.’

Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out a small brass key and the crumpled black and white photo depicting the same building I stood in front of. “Well Gramps, let’s finish this, hm?” The lock was tarnished and weathered, unlike the key that had been smoothed from years of living on Gramps’s keyring.

I gripped the lock in my palm, feeling the paper crushing between the brass and my skin. The wind picked up slightly, causing my eyes to wander and watch as the trees danced around me. There was no road to the barn, only the grown over dirt path behind the building that led back to the house. A bird’s whistle from within the trees was caught on the breeze and rested in my ear causing a chill to travel down my spine as I looked back down at the lock and turned the key.

There was a loud click and the full weight of the lock fell into my hand. I heaved my chest upward, taking in a deep breath as I pushed the door inward. It dragged along the floor, partially coming unhinged from the frame, kicking up dust to get caught in the sunlight that beamed into the barn for the first time in almost 10 years.

Buckets, horseshoes and even a forgotten saddle littered the floors, everything covered in a thin layer of dust. Cobwebs adorned the rafters and crept across the ceiling into the loft area, lacing their way down the ladder. I rolled my eyes, letting out a huff, but almost immediately bursting out into a loud laughter. I could hear Gramps clear as day, yelling at me with his ridiculous Southern twang. “There ain’t no huffin and puffin when yer doin’ favors for yer Gramps!”

He had shrunken in stature over the years according to Ma. No longer a six-foot-three burly man with brown hair matted to his forehead from the hours of labor, dressed in the mangled plaid shirt and classic denim overalls, mended with all color patches. His deep voice and booming laughter echoing throughout the house at all times of the day. But the Gramps I knew was still that man, even after life threw him a few curveballs.

“Climb the ladder and int’a the loft. Yer a smart girl, you’ll know what ta do then.” I could see him when he said this, lying in his bed. The thinning gray hair on his head mingled with the thick gray hairs of his eyebrows, his piercing blue eyes almost hidden behind the wrinkles that formed from his toothy grin.

Tightening the backpack straps on my shoulders, I walked over toward the ladder, gripping the first rung, and making my way up it slowly. It was still sturdy; the only creaking came from the floor beneath it. As I reached the top of the ladder, I swatted at the cobwebs that blocked my entrance into the loft. Crawling into the space, I took a moment to look around, but it was empty, only the smell of must beginning to permeate my nose and clothes.

I looked around once more, my teeth grit together in frustration before noticing two small objects pushed all the way into the back left corner. I crawled closer, sitting back on my knees, a smile tugging on my lips, and the sudden urge to cry lodged in the back of my throat. Before me sat a picture frame, and in it a photo of my Grandma. Her dark, warm skin and wide smile stole my focus, her eyes shining a deep brown color, seemingly held up by her high cheek bones. The silk houndstooth hairband was knotted just above her forehead, holding her thick, textured hair like a gentle cloud on top of her head and away from her angled face. Looking at the photo, I could almost smell her rich perfume. Beside the frame was a familiar urn, a deep jade green, smooth and gently curved.

“So, this is where you took her…” I shook my head, a chuckle escaping my lips. Taking my backpack off and setting it beside me, I pulled another picture frame out, placing it beside Grandma’s. It was Gramps in those patched up overalls, his brown hair curled up and framing his wide face. A smile stretched up and into his cheeks, his blue eyes looking to his right toward the picture of Grandma. I reached into the backpack and pulled out a blue ceramic urn, textile like designs all along the rim and base, and placed it beside his photo.

The photos seemed to be looking at one another, Gramps never could keep his eyes off Grandma, and she was always by his side. When she died almost 10 years earlier, he was heartbroken, kept telling everyone he was going to join her soon. As time passed, he was healthy as could be, but he had stopped doing what he once loved. He stopped caring for the barn, gave away the chickens to a neighbor, sold the horses, and he barely left the house. When he got sick, he started acting more like his old self. “Gonna see ‘er again real soon…” He would say.

“You are with her again old man… but I am going to miss you here…” I smiled again, gently caressing both photos. “I love you both.”

By the time I had climbed down and walked outside, locking the barn door behind me, the sun was high in the sky. The wind had settled, and the trees only rocked in the gentle gusts. The continuous hum of a lawnmower could be heard through the nagging buzz of cicadas. As I walked toward the path, I stared at the barn, watching the shifting view as I made my way around it. The paint seemed brighter, the grass seemed shorter, the smell of rot and mold shifted to old perfume, and a booming laugh was caught on the breeze.

Short Story
9

About the Creator

Samantha A.R.Weaver

Hello one and all, please call me Sam! I experiment with any and all genres and styles with enthusiasm and excitement each time. Please see my poetry website as well, www.paletteknifepoetry.com if you are interested in my work!

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