Starving for the Big Red Barn
The big red barn was America. Rose was absolutely sure of that. It had been in all the paintings, with the amber waves of grain, and the eagle soaring overhead, and always full of cows and crops. She held the image of the barn in her mind as the ship pitched and rolled beneath her. Rose’s people had been tenant farmers for longer than anyone could remember but the barns of Ireland weren’t red, they were stone. And they were empty.
