April Walch

Fred

It seems like the old barn doesn't have a place in time anymore, as if it belongs to nature and the past. The timber my Uncle built the barn from has weathered and turned gray over the years. At the street, a steel gate runs between two rotting fence posts. The broken lock lets it squeak in the light breeze, and red flakes of rust look like blood on the damp ground. A sagging chicken coop stands behind the barn, and a once lovely house graces the west field. Maple and sumac trees surround the buildings and have littered the ground over time. The scent of ancient roses and lilacs fill the air; wildflowers and grasses have pretty much taken over all they can. Surprisingly, a single Marigold plant blooms beside the broken barn door. Someone almost had to plant it as they are not perennials, or perhaps a passing bird dropped some seeds. It strikes me as odd, though, because Marigolds were my Aunt Grace's favorite flower. Today there is a slight drizzle in the air, and the cloud layer gives everything a gunmetal gray backdrop adding to the sense of desolation. Something about the place cries loneliness.