More to Live For

This is a life I've never known. Every time I feel like I'm an intruder, no matter how many times I'm told I'm not.

A loud boom steals my attention. I am out of bed in a second, peering out my window to locate the sound over the vast opened space of vacant and abandoned farmland. The night sky twists and turns. It is swirling with dark clouds, unlike anything I've ever seen before.

I can hear the old man's violent coughing coming from downstairs. He's rattling around with something. Then, with another violent cough, I can catch the sound of something heavy dropping. I wonder if he's struggling. He wouldn't call me for help. He has too much pride to do such a thing, but I know he needs it.

The truth is he's in his late 70s, and he is sick with something that I'm sure will claim his stubborn ass faster than either of us care to admit. I am a 17-year-old boy, and I can help. My stick-thin frame is hardly a setback to what I can actually do. This rickety old house needs help, and sometimes I think that might be the only reason I'm here.

A bolt of lightning makes me want to jump out of my skin. It's close enough to feel the heat as I gaze out the window and watch the land react to the weather above. It looks scary out there, but maybe that's just because I've never seen the world react this way before.

With another thud downstairs, guilt pulls me from the window seal. I grab my old coat and begin lacing it over my arms. Then, I trot hastily downstairs.

The old man is standing there by the backdoor, scrutinizing the land much like I was. There is an old toolbox thrown down by his feet. He doesn't even turn around to acknowledge me there but insists, "This is it, the storm- she's gonna go ahead and take my last love away."

His voice expresses deep pain. For a man that always tries to hide his feelings, hearing him say such a thing tears at my heart. I actually like the guy, so I muster the only thing I think is appropriate, "Maybe it'll pass."

"I've lived here all of my life. She ain't gonna pass."

"What can we do?" I ask as if there is anything that can be done to stop it from coming.

A mighty cough brings his hand to his knee as he covers his mouth with a tissue. Droplets of blood splatter against the white material. He knows I notice, but neither of us says anything.

"You gotta be crazy thinking we can do something about this." He shakes his head and manages to laugh a little. "Here," he hands me the keys to his old pickup truck. "There's still time to go."

"And what about you?" I ask as I take the keys.

"I can't leave this place behind; it's all I got left, kid." He sounds broken. The old man won't even look me in the eye. Instead, his eyes are fixed on a shaky old barn a short walk from the back door.

"You can't stay here alone. It's too dangerous." I announce, knowing full well that staying might get him killed.

He shakes his head, "You don't have time to pack. Get in the truck and go- make a life for yourself somewhere."

I sigh as I glance over some old sentiments hanging from his walls, "Mr. Robinson. Where do you think I'd go?"

"Find someone- find a way; you've done it this long," I can finish the sentence for him, "You can do it again."

The sparling sky outside is terrifying. I stand next to Mr. Robinson, watching the building with him. His hand is on the door handle waiting for me to go. He wants to pull it open and go fix those swinging barn doors. I can't believe that he is willing to risk his life to secure an old shed- it's a love that I can somehow appreciate.

"Go now, kid, I'm warning you."

I huff, "This- it's all I have."

He farrows his eyebrow as I speak. We haven't known each other for long. This land, this place, my room it's all brand new in the scheme of things. Mr. Robinson is the only person I've ever seen walk through the Richford Foster Care Center doors and choose someone other than the cutest babies. It was me he asked to talk to. I was the one who got a home that day.

This old man came in with nothing and walked out with someone of equal value. I've popped from house to house, family to family, and never once did any of those places feel like home. Each one seems to house a new kind of horror but not here. This is different.

When you're like me, you learn to not ask too many questions. So, I never did ask why Mr. Robinson chose me. I just sort of understood that this would be my last stop through the system. At 17 years old, you've already seen so much.

He is in his 70s all alone; I'm sure that's why I'm here. Mr. Robinson's walls are decorticated with all of his life sentiments. They are old, just like him, yet these things still drive him forward. The only thing I have is standing there looking at the tornado, ready to take on Mother Nature to save the rest of his memories.

"This is the first place that's felt like home since I lost my dad," I answered as the storm grows close. "It's the first place I've ever been that I don't have to look over my shoulder. This is my home. I'm not going anywhere."

Mr. Robinson curls his lips, "You might be just as stubborn as I am."

I expected him to give me a speech about why I am too young with too much to look forward to. He was supposed to say I can't risk my life over an old barn. But he didn't. I guess that's part of what makes this old man different. He doesn't question me because of my background; he just listens.

The old man pulls open the back door and directs, "Grab that box of tools and meet me by the barn."

Wind wisps through my hair as I shield my face with my forearm. He runs toward the barn stumbling as the wind tussles him. I lean down to pick up the heavy tool chest and join him in his pursuit.

We meet at the heavy doors that are swinging aggressively. They crush on the sides of the shed with thudding booms even more hostile than the roaring thunder. The old man points off and screams something toward me, but I can't hear him over the ripping winds. I use all of my strength to gather the doors shut. Once they are closed, I flip myself around to use the power of my back to keep them closed.

I survey the area and don't see Mr. Robison anywhere. I scream for him but feel my words get picked up with the wind, much like the debris thrown in every direction. My eyes are clenched tight as the doors fight back. I lose my footing and feel my body lob through the air, landing on my hands and knees.

The wind yanks one of the heavy old wooden doors clear off its hinges and into the sky. I watch as the door spiral high until I lose sight of it. Even flat out on the floor, I can feel my body yank back and forth, unable to control myself under the harsh environment.

Crashing out of the sky is something significant and unrecognizable. I curl myself tight as the item bashes to the floor, inches away from my stiffened body.

I scream at the top of my lungs, "Mr. Robinson? Mr. Robinson?"

There is no reply.

"Mr. Robinson? Where are you?" I scream as I try to lift my weight off the floor, but the wind is keeping me from raising my ribcage.

Things bigger than me fly hastily through the air in a dance, unlike anything I've seen before. My eyes are watered nearly shut as I peel myself off the ground and grab onto the frame of the old barn.

I wrap my arms around the old wooden frame as the surrounding tests my ability to withstand. But then, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I notice Mr. Robinson, somehow stouter than me, maybe from experience, standing beside me.

Together we brace against the old barn as pieces of siding rip right off and hurl into the sky. I look to Mr. Robinson and notice his blank expression as the winds grow even harder to endure.

Tears are forming in his eyes as he yells to me, "Let's go."

"But- Maybe if I wedge," I attempt to answer as loudly as my lungs will allow.

"It's too late boy, she's gone." He answers in a low tone.

Together we hang onto each other as we make our way back to the home. As we inch closer to Mr. Robinson's house, I can feel the air calming. I squint my eyes to help see through the dust as the flying wreckage seems to wane.

Inside the house feels so much safer. We sit across from one another on the couch. I notice the storm moving its way towards the barren field across the way. The thud of my heart feels like it's on an intercom. Things still petal the windows, the house still creeks, but it seems as though the brunt of the catastrophe narrowly missed taking the whole place out.

We watch the outside together in silence, both shaken. He is broken; it shows through his expressionless posture.

Our silence grows uncomfortable, so I start digging for the right words to say, "I can help you rebuild the pieces that were lost…."

He clears his throat, "When I was young, just older than you, I bought this property with my wife. There was nothing on it, but together we had thought that we would make ourselves a farm. So we built this place up from scratch. Never did have any animals, but we had a daughter and son who loved that barn as much as we did. I always promised to do my best to keep it exactly how we all loved it, exactly like the moment they kissed me goodbye for the last time."

I stare at him, unsure of how to answer.

"I didn't know how to feel when I lost them. So I've hung onto everything that reminded me of them, hoping that someday I could feel whole again. Now, look at this place. It's a wreck."

I get up and join him at the backdoor. Although the world looks much calmer, you can see the old barn barley standing through mild dust. It's missing chunks; there is only one door; it's barely a skeleton of what it was when I got here.

He clears his throat, "Today, I realized something."

I exhale at the broken structure but answer him, "What was that?"

"Sometimes others have less than you do, and they still have heart. Life isn't about what you have even if it has a story to it." He places his hand on my shoulder, "It's about who you're sharing your life with."

I let a natural smile creep over my face, "Thank you, Mr. Robinson- for everything."

"No kid, thank you for helping an old man like me see that there's more than an old barn to live for."