An Early Winter

The woods were stripped bare of their leaves as the hard fall had set in, leaving all thoughts of summer piled in hushed shadowed forms loosely nestled upon trees deep within sleep. The old rattling of the truck pulled up the well worn road to a barn that looked more like the landscape then the very trees it was built within.

His face was long with age and the many years of toil that etched not only his brow but his scarred hands. He pulled the long doors open and waited for the voice of many years that would challenge his presence; silence. Walt looked deep within the rafters and couldn't see the eyes that often peered at him from the shadows and that little voice that asked “who”. He looked beyond the open loft and awaited the moment he would see his friend. This familiar gaze was upended as his eyes caught her lying in the spring straw as if asleep. The pain that hit him was like his wife passing six months ago and he found the tears close to the surface.

“Old Fool,” he muttered as he bent down and pulled his large handkerchief from his overalls and wrapped the old barn owl in it. He lifted the little owl up and put her within the cab of his truck and continued to load the straw in the back. He finished as quickly as his aged bones allowed, closed and padlocked the barn, and wiped back the tears and snot from his face. His shoulder hurt and he convinced himself it was just strain and sat back in his truck and turned the engine over and pulled slowly back.

The dark clouds that hung deeply upon the narrow sky turned ash the light that filtered upon the already gray landscapes making the barn seem even more empty than once it had before. There were piles of grain in the corners of the barn to draw more tiny thieves in and feed the old friend above. Now it would be quickly consumed without the threat of death from above. The light dying in the west made wind burn the skin with promised sleet in the hours to come as he rolled the window tight.

The hum of the truck echoed in the creeks and empty trees and he sat transfixed upon the dead bird that questioned him no longer, but who he wanted to whisper to “its me old girl.” like he had done so many times before. He found her too on the floor of the living room. She was cold and he blamed himself because he was late to supper as he was delayed due to the bank not having a manager on hand to let him get his cash so he could buy the tractor he had his eye on.

He had been back to his barn many times after the funeral and had always spoken to the old owl about what had happened and in fact wanted to do the same today as he didn’t even need the straw, just the company. His son had left many years ago and had a family of his own and couldn’t make it to his own mother's funeral due to the plague that had killed so many and left the old fewer. He spoke to him over the phone and assured him he was still fine at eighty-seven and didn’t need anything.

His boy wanted him to go to a home and rest but had relented as he watched those homes become death traps. He would call the boy and tell him all was fine each day, and he promised to eat enough and take his meds; but that too was a lie as he couldn’t get his prescriptions and had kept putting them off when the money came from the insurance on his wife. Even after it showed, he had forgotten to take them more often than not and slowly he had just stopped and had an extra cup of coffee and ate his toast.

Thoughts of what to do with his old friend swirled in his head.

He put his truck in reverse and drove past the gate, onto the dirt road leading to the main highway and quickly found himself in front of Crooked Oak Cemetery as memories of the first day he had seen the owl in his barn some ten years ago came flooding to him. He remembered to say good morning and goodbye each time he had come within earshot of the barn.

His wife, Paula, called him an old fool so often that he took it with pride and her pet name for him. Her view of the owl was to just leave it be and stop trying to make friends with a wild creature, but he couldn’t do that as he remembered that long ago there were so many, and now so few.

Paula would smile when he left early with bits of bread stuffed in his pockets knowing his daily journeys would conclude in that drafty barn. After forty years they accepted each other's little habits and he knew he had vastly more annoying ones. Dirty rolled socks on their couch, mud on his boots, or the budget for stray animals he often befriended. Sometimes it felt she was the only one who loved him and that was enough on cold lonely days.

He smiled as he thought of her and placed the truck in park and stepped out and reached back and grabbed the spade and took the little white bundle with him as he opened the gate and made his way past the stones of lost stories to stand before his own blank slab and her name. They had decided to be next to each other and had bought a stone with two blank slates and as of yet only her name was etched on their shared last testament of life.

He bent low and brushed away the snow that had fallen this high up in the hills and found a stick and quickly toiled away the words of her name so he could see. He spoke about his idea of leaving the bird here beside her and found more to talk about as he dug the hole. He told her of the apples and how he had forgotten to get the pecans from the trees in the back forty. The small hole was just perfect and he placed the bundle within the arms of earth and, in his mind, wife and quickly covered the breech and rested.

“I didn’t tell the boy, but it's back.” he said and took a long drink of the coffee in the thermos and smiled. “I know he would be mad at me about not taking my meds but maybe he could buy a crib for the littles on what I saved on pills.”

He looked longingly at the earth and smiled. “I guess there's no reason to keep the heart going if the liver is gone.” He stopped to look into the silent sky and peered over the quiet yard of patient watchers and continued. “The books are right and the money is ready to be transferred if anything happens love.” His eyes locked on her name and continued.

“ That lawyer friend of yours, she's been a good help. I…” he wondered if should say anymore but decided he was cold. “I’ll be back tomorrow love, getting tired. Take good care of my friend till I get back.” He turned and walked along the rows of frost covered stones.

He hoisted himself into the truck and thought of all those moments that had made him find his place here. He reached in his pocket and fumbled for the keys. They dropped to the floorboard as his hand went numb, and the shooting pain hit like thunder.

Only a few short breaths and he joined the quiet many, passing this world where the sky is still thick with wayward owls.