The Old Barn

I came to the old barn looking for peace and quiet.

I didn’t find it.

What I did find is a restlessness I’ve never known before.

The floor is scattered with remnants of bales of hay that years ago had been stacked neatly in the mow. Even the slightest movement of air would have disturbed the dust they now rest on.

But no air is moving today. I draw it into my lungs, but it is hot and smothering. A bead of sweat snakes its way down the back of my neck.

Deep gouges in the wormy chestnut floorboards tell of machinery and horses’ hooves that have crossed over them. The path through the old barn was always the same for loading and unloading the bales that would feed the cows during the winter months.

Neglected windows are closed against the breeze, their once-clear panes now frosted with dust and grime. The sunbeams surge through one high window, cascading down to the floor with particles of dust dancing in them. Usually a joyous sight, today it only deepens my disquietude.

Mired in my malaise, I jump as a field mouse skitters into the spotlight then quickly turns tail and runs into the recesses. As I calm my breathing, I become more aware of the presence I feel in this old barn.

The silence screams at me. It piles guilt on top of my restlessness, pushing me to my knees. I bow low, my head in my hands. My chest heaves. I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. They never do. Perhaps I fear if I let them flow, they’ll never stop.

Why did I come here?

There’s no peace and quiet here. And there never will be again.

I rise, turning to leave, and then I see it. My gut knows it is what has summoned me through my stupor to the old barn. Under a tarp tucked in a far recess of the building, neglected since Jack placed it there so Dad wouldn’t find it, it had sent out its siren call.

It’s called to me on this day for the past three years. The past - my past - will not rest in peace here. My soul sobs as the weight forces me to my knees again.

If only.

I don't even know how to finish that sentence. What would I change?

Jack had had such dreams for that car. It was supposed to change his life. He wanted to change the world, and he was sure that car would take him to his destination.

We’d spent many days up in that haymow, regaling each other with stories of all the differences we were going to make in the world.

Jack was going to revolutionize farming. He had a passion to feed the hungry. He would tell me of all the places in the world that had no food because the growing conditions were dry or rocky. He planned to drive that car to college and develop drought-resistant crops so even the poorest environments could grow food for hungry people. And then he’d drive that car all over, sharing his knowledge with all the people of earth.

I always pictured him on a hilltop, sunshine spotlighting him. Arms in the air, jumping up and down like Rocky. Celebrating his triumph.

I still see him there, in the rays of the sun.

My ambitions were less lofty. Marry well, make babies, and brew the best craft beer the world had ever seen.

Wish I had some of that beer right now.

Jack had been relentless, scavenging and trading for parts for that thing and presenting them to me as gifts. He always acted like they were priceless treasures. And he gathered them like he was running out of time.

Who knew.

We spent endless summer hours tearing it apart and adding his latest acquisition. We celebrated each find, enjoying each other as we put it back together until it was almost like new. Soon we could take it out for a test run, Jack said. And then we could finally show it to Dad.

A barn cat yowls at me from just outside the door as a bird swoops out of the rafters and disturbs the dust with its wings.

My spirit is as uneasy as that bird, wrestling with memories that threaten to overwhelm me. I need to get out of this old barn before the weight of the guilt becomes oppressive.

The siren calls again. As if in a trance, I rise and my feet move of their own accord. My arm extends toward the tarp, fingers tingling with the anticipation of grasping it.

I hear Jack’s voice like it was yesterday, chiding me for letting so much dust settle over the tarp. And then he'd punch my arm so I'd know he wasn't really mad at me. He always wanted things neat and tidy, including the canvas covering his prized possession. But we could never stay mad at each other.

I long to punch his arm again. Or to feel his arm around my shoulders one more time.

“Mommy?”

The tiny voice, barely above a whisper, fragments my reverie.

Standing in the doorway of the old barn is my perfect little angel. The sunlight behind her tousled blond curls adds to her aura. Tiny fingers clutch the ear of a stuffed bunny that almost drags on the ground.

A tear slips down my cheek. Finally.

The sight of her drops me to my knees again, and she comes rushing into my outstretched arms.

She is my last and most precious gift from Jack.