Three Birds Market

Prairie winds lash and embrace me all at once, delighting in something other than crops and grasses to dance with. Despite the breeze, the late august sunset is warm against my outer walls. Inside, the light fights its way through the weak spots in the walls and roof, littering the floor with sunbeam spotlights; this reminds me of my age, which I don’t enjoy being reminded of often. I exhale the warmth into the winds, and the air inside me remains cool. The creaky complaints of my walls and rafters in the wind are drowned out by the joyful sounds of life enjoying the shelter of my walls. I am just happy to no longer be lonely.

The barn swallows are happily fluttering through the rafters, hoping the fledglings will soon follow suit. The six newly feathered young watch eagerly from the nest, singing tunes of eagerness and joy to fill the entirety of empty space below them. The birds return each summer to allow me the privilege of witnessing new life, old love, and purpose. I have been a home and shelter to so many over the years, and at one point, I was the centre of the entire farm; I housed the animals, feed, tools, and there was never a moment of quiet. My floor boards bore the weight of so many, and I maintain a fond remembrance of the farmers who whistled or sang out into the rafters on the days we had rain. When the farmers left, they took the animals, the tools, and the feed, but they left me here. I sat empty, dark, and alone until the swallows came back to give me purpose again. They have deemed me worthy of a family. After the swallows, came the girls, and the moments of quiet were once again few and far between.

The three girls have been playing, hiding, laughing, and crying within my walls since the youngest was still being carried in by the elder two. The eldest, whom they call Jessica, has always been so careful with me, as if she thinks at any moment I will collapse around her. She is a tall, thin girl with forest green eyes and she steps lightly and never slams the door. Sometimes she brings the younger two to me under the guise of a game or to play, but I know when she is protecting them from what lies outside of my walls, because she talks much louder than usual and glances toward the house when the others aren’t looking. The second born, an energetic and sometimes rather aggressive child, is called Sam. Sam is small for her age, and her hazel eyes glow an almost amber colour at times. She would much prefer she be equated in maturity to her elder sister, but shares more of the childish innocence with the youngest. Sam has a vast imagination, and she sneaks away by herself to the barn to play pretend quite often. She even sleeps within my stalls on occasion. The youngest, Beth, is enamoured of her sisters. I don’t know if they notice, but so often when they’re playing, she simply stares at them smiling. She has ice blue eyes and hair that flows well past her low back, which is really quite amusing given how small she is.

The girls are always gentle with the swallows, and take care not to disturb the nests once the eggs are laid. The swallows seem fond of the girls, and reward their respect by having never swooped down to deter them from a presence within my walls. Today the girls seem to mirror the swallows from below, fluttering about beneath them as if they’re teaching their own fledgelings to fly. They answer the swallows babes in song, tweeting and chirping back, and it is an even sweeter sound than when the farmers whistled in the rain within me. The little one tires, and they all collapse to the floor to rest, falling silent for a moment.

“I’ll miss the barn if we move.” Beth stares into space, as if she is too busy imagining her own words.

“We don’t have to miss it,” Sam hisses back, “because we aren’t going to have to move. Just because they fight doesn’t mean they’re getting a divorce. Right, Jessica?”

I can see that Jessica is pained, but she does a good job of hiding that from the other girls most days.

“I hope you’re right, Sam. And Beth— even if that did happen, someone would keep the farm, so we will still be able to visit the swallows when we are visiting whoever lives here.” Jessica reaches over to rub Beth’s back. Beth stares forward and nods.

Sam decides to press further.

“So you think they still love each other?” Sam’s voice cracks at the end of her sentence. Her eyes are glossed, and I think she regrets her question already.

This time, Jessica does not try to be strong. She shuffles forward on the floor toward her sisters and embraces them both. They sob, but they do so almost silently. In the nest above, the swallows have formed the same huddle, as if out of respect. Perhaps they understand what the girls speak of, or maybe they feel my beams tighten and tense at the thought of losing the three girls so soon after welcoming them in. I so badly wish to not have to be in that deafening silence once the swallows are gone this fall. Now the wind feels like a beating, and the august sun has disappeared, leaving me in the cold.

***

A woman carefully unlatches my door and takes a light, hesitant step inside. She saunters over to a stall, sinks backward, and takes me in. Admittedly, I’ve aged: the beams of light on the floor stream in through much larger gaps in the walls and roof, and I certainly do not stand as straight as I once did. Still, the woman seems comforted by the sight of me. She appears to be capturing photographs of the stalls and rafters, and she calls to someone beyond the doors.

“Beth— how tall were the shelving units we looked at?”

Another woman jogs through my door.

“I dunno— definitely not this tall.” She shrugs, fighting back the smirk in the corner of her lips, staring straight up into the rafters. Her eyes are ice blue and full of laughter.

The other woman scoffs.

“Yeah— thanks, that helps. Okay but look at the stalls. Are the vendor shelves going to fit enough...”

A third woman saunters in with a cigarette between her lips. “I’m sure if the shelves don’t fit they can be used somewhere else, Jess. What about the coffee shop?”

“I mean... I guess... I already picked ones for the coffee shop.” Jess, looks annoyed, and frantic to lose sight of what she’d planned.

“You’ll make it work, Jess. You always do. What are we gonna do about our sisters up there?”

The three girls turn their heads to the rafters in unison, and as they do, the swallows begin their nightly flying lesson with this year’s fledgelings.

Beth squints a moment. “Sam, look! There’s three!”

“I don’t think there’s ever been less than 6 when we were here. That’s a bit odd.” Jessica ponders out loud.

Sam smiles. “I guess those three are leaving the nest, because these three are returning.”

***

I stand tall once again, with my doors wide open. My floor is new and it shines despite the weight it bears each day. The August sunset no longer streams in through holes in my walls, but through the new windows carefully pressed into them. My beams and stalls remain, and they’re full of food and tools again. Music soars within me each day, even when the three sisters close the doors for the night. They spend most evenings counting their money, stocking their shelves, and sharing meals with one another and their families. In my time, I’d only known the swallows to return and show me kindness, but the sisters came back for me.

The swallows have their own special entry to their favourite spot in the rafters, unbothered by the people who visit the market each day, and the three girls always close the market on the day the fledglings will be leaving the nest. They sit behind me at sunrise with their coffees, and they talk of all our memories good and bad, while the children dart in and out of the stalls inside.