The Old Barn

 

The old barn was never just a barn.

It was the place childhood kept its secrets,

the rich, dusty aroma of hay,

the knotty gray boards weathered into permanence,

the stalls carved out of rough timber

That seemed older than anything I knew.

I wasn’t supposed to climb to the loft.

Which meant, of course, that I wanted to.

Up there lived the feral cats,

the mice that scattered like thoughts you try to catch,

and once, the papery ghost of a snake skin

That made me swear the whole place was alive.

Back then, the barn felt enormous,

a little creepy, full of corners that watched you.

But every summer I grew,

and the barn sagged a little more—

boards softening, roofline drooping,

Its mysteries leaking out through the cracks.

By the time I was old enough

to walk across the pasture without hurrying,

The wonder had thinned.

The forbidden became familiar,

The creatures moved on,

And the loft was just a loft.

I didn’t know it then,

But the barn was teaching me

How life works:

fear turning into fascination,

fascination into exploration,

and exploration into something

You eventually outgrow.

Those boyhood memories of Grandma’s house,

the long walk through the pasture,

grass brushing my legs,

sun on my neck,

They’re etched into me now.

The barn still stands in my mind,

not as it was,

But as it felt.

A place that once loomed large,

then slowly fell away,

leaving behind the shape of who I became.

wcd