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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Relationships
- Published: 02/04/2011
The Old Barn
Born 1958, M, from Vancouver, WA, United StatesThe Old Barn
This paved road was dirt back when, as a young man, he drove his car as if chased by demons, running for his life from the fantail of dust his passage kicked up, cutting a path through the hot summer air and smelling the burnt dust, the cut hay and cows in pasture.
Beneath him, as an old man, the blacktop sang. He was driving, window down and listening closely to the rush of the haunting air past his elbow, smelling the hot flower-scent, the bailed hay, the exhaust from the highway. Summer ran warm this year like it had long ago.
In his hand he held two slips of paper: One worn by time - like the skin of the hand that held it - the ink faded, in places almost gone. The other new, fresh, the ink still heavy in the flowing lines depressed into the paper. His other hand shook as it tried desperately to hold firm to the steering wheel.
The car rolled to a stop into a wide spot at the edge of the road. The engine silenced, ticked with fresh heat. He stood facing into a summer wind that was hot and smelling of lilacs and the resin of tall pines in the distance. He remembered how blue the sky above the trees had been so many years ago, remembered how alive he had been, taking in the air, the scent of lilac heated by Summer: food for a young man in love.
He held tight to the notes, keeping them together as he stepped away from the road, found a worn path through the grass and smiled at the wonder of the day. Until he pulled off the road, he could not remember how long it had been.
Sixty years.
Now, as he waded through waist-deep field grass...
Sixty years.
That summer sixty years ago had been expectant, calm and silent, even as he drove. He was eighteen, in love with life, and ready to leave everything he knew to find what he did not know, but wanted.
She had left the note on the front seat of the car. The day before he was to leave he found it there, held down by a small stone.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
The old man stopped where the field gave up to trees. As children they had played here, hide-and-seek, cowboys and Indians. But for the rusted strands of barbed wire pulled away from rotting fence posts that lined the field, it was as it had been back then.
At the edge of the forest were reddish pale beech trees with glossy leaves, grown now to heights that made them impossible as play things. In the air he could hear their childish laughter as they swung from their branches to the ground. Her hair had always been in pigtails, and they looped about her head as she fell slowly to the ground, and rose up. He had made Tarzan calls when he rode the branches up and down.
Now his heart was beating faster. Carefully he stepped over the barbed wire and disappeared into the shadow of the forest.
The old barn was where they went when they were older, when swinging from branches and giggling and yelling were childish. It was up the hillside, in a clearing on the other side of the trees. Now hidden by blackberries and young alder trees, the old barn, abandoned years before, had fallen in on one side, its stone foundation covered in moss and crumbling in terraces.
The forest was silent, and the blue sky so brilliant he could feel it above. He held the note in his young hand and climbed through the forest and up the worn path.
She was there, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing blue shorts that came almost to her knees, and a loose white blouse. She was beautiful, sitting there in a pool of sunlight, leaning back on her arms. He sat beside her, and the understanding that had grown between them over the last year - that he would leave, was the silence between them.
“One dream I have,” she said at last, her voice controlled, though on the edge, “was that I would always be important to you.” She smiled at him, and her eyes shone with the sunlight mixed with green from the trees. “I never told you that dream because some dreams are too special for words. You either had that dream too, or not. But I needed to see you one time before you left. One last chance to be important to you.”
In that quiet place of stones, moss, and trees, surrounded by butterflies, blackberries, and an old barn, they made love for the first time in their lives.
Sixty years ago.
Together they ran from the fantail of dust, leaving together and staying together through poverty and war, children, sickness, health and the myriad celebrations of life. She with him, and he knowing that it could have been no other way.
He stood now, the forest giving way to the clearing where still the last beams and stones of the old barn stood. She had died, and he remembered painfully how long ago that had been. Eighteen years: the span of the life of a child.
The length of time it takes to giggle and yell, swing from trees, talk of dreams, and make love for the first time in the mossy grass.
The time it takes to watch a person, and to realize, without understanding why, that this person would be a part of you forever.
She had known, had understood, had dreamed.
The old man stepped into the clearing and there she sat, blue shorts, white blouse, on the tumbled stones of the barn's foundation. His heart raced as he held the two notes, one in each hand, both saying the same thing, one old, and the other new, found on the pillow next to his this morning. Held there by a small stone.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
“One dream I have,” she said, “was that I would always be important to you.” She leaned forward and pointed behind him. The old man turned, and there in the grass was a crumpled body, white hair, leathery skin, arms extended at awkward angles, each hand holding a small scrap of paper.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
He turned back to her and smiled.
The Old Barn(William Cline)
The Old Barn
This paved road was dirt back when, as a young man, he drove his car as if chased by demons, running for his life from the fantail of dust his passage kicked up, cutting a path through the hot summer air and smelling the burnt dust, the cut hay and cows in pasture.
Beneath him, as an old man, the blacktop sang. He was driving, window down and listening closely to the rush of the haunting air past his elbow, smelling the hot flower-scent, the bailed hay, the exhaust from the highway. Summer ran warm this year like it had long ago.
In his hand he held two slips of paper: One worn by time - like the skin of the hand that held it - the ink faded, in places almost gone. The other new, fresh, the ink still heavy in the flowing lines depressed into the paper. His other hand shook as it tried desperately to hold firm to the steering wheel.
The car rolled to a stop into a wide spot at the edge of the road. The engine silenced, ticked with fresh heat. He stood facing into a summer wind that was hot and smelling of lilacs and the resin of tall pines in the distance. He remembered how blue the sky above the trees had been so many years ago, remembered how alive he had been, taking in the air, the scent of lilac heated by Summer: food for a young man in love.
He held tight to the notes, keeping them together as he stepped away from the road, found a worn path through the grass and smiled at the wonder of the day. Until he pulled off the road, he could not remember how long it had been.
Sixty years.
Now, as he waded through waist-deep field grass...
Sixty years.
That summer sixty years ago had been expectant, calm and silent, even as he drove. He was eighteen, in love with life, and ready to leave everything he knew to find what he did not know, but wanted.
She had left the note on the front seat of the car. The day before he was to leave he found it there, held down by a small stone.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
The old man stopped where the field gave up to trees. As children they had played here, hide-and-seek, cowboys and Indians. But for the rusted strands of barbed wire pulled away from rotting fence posts that lined the field, it was as it had been back then.
At the edge of the forest were reddish pale beech trees with glossy leaves, grown now to heights that made them impossible as play things. In the air he could hear their childish laughter as they swung from their branches to the ground. Her hair had always been in pigtails, and they looped about her head as she fell slowly to the ground, and rose up. He had made Tarzan calls when he rode the branches up and down.
Now his heart was beating faster. Carefully he stepped over the barbed wire and disappeared into the shadow of the forest.
The old barn was where they went when they were older, when swinging from branches and giggling and yelling were childish. It was up the hillside, in a clearing on the other side of the trees. Now hidden by blackberries and young alder trees, the old barn, abandoned years before, had fallen in on one side, its stone foundation covered in moss and crumbling in terraces.
The forest was silent, and the blue sky so brilliant he could feel it above. He held the note in his young hand and climbed through the forest and up the worn path.
She was there, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing blue shorts that came almost to her knees, and a loose white blouse. She was beautiful, sitting there in a pool of sunlight, leaning back on her arms. He sat beside her, and the understanding that had grown between them over the last year - that he would leave, was the silence between them.
“One dream I have,” she said at last, her voice controlled, though on the edge, “was that I would always be important to you.” She smiled at him, and her eyes shone with the sunlight mixed with green from the trees. “I never told you that dream because some dreams are too special for words. You either had that dream too, or not. But I needed to see you one time before you left. One last chance to be important to you.”
In that quiet place of stones, moss, and trees, surrounded by butterflies, blackberries, and an old barn, they made love for the first time in their lives.
Sixty years ago.
Together they ran from the fantail of dust, leaving together and staying together through poverty and war, children, sickness, health and the myriad celebrations of life. She with him, and he knowing that it could have been no other way.
He stood now, the forest giving way to the clearing where still the last beams and stones of the old barn stood. She had died, and he remembered painfully how long ago that had been. Eighteen years: the span of the life of a child.
The length of time it takes to giggle and yell, swing from trees, talk of dreams, and make love for the first time in the mossy grass.
The time it takes to watch a person, and to realize, without understanding why, that this person would be a part of you forever.
She had known, had understood, had dreamed.
The old man stepped into the clearing and there she sat, blue shorts, white blouse, on the tumbled stones of the barn's foundation. His heart raced as he held the two notes, one in each hand, both saying the same thing, one old, and the other new, found on the pillow next to his this morning. Held there by a small stone.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
“One dream I have,” she said, “was that I would always be important to you.” She leaned forward and pointed behind him. The old man turned, and there in the grass was a crumpled body, white hair, leathery skin, arms extended at awkward angles, each hand holding a small scrap of paper.
Meet me at the old barn this afternoon.
He turned back to her and smiled.
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