The Barn Owl

It was autumn the day she died. It wasn’t cold like the depths of autumn can get around here, but certainly passed the line of summer. Like a true change of the season, it rained in the morning and had a chill in the air that made me think it might be time to start putting away the furniture on the back patio. By the afternoon though, the sun was out but the air was crisp. Yellow and burnt orange leaves had already started their descent and I made my way to the barn outback to get the rake and start the dreaded seasonal chore.

The barn was dank and dark. It wasn’t a functional barn anymore, time and neglect had made sure of that. The stalls where horses probably once lived were long empty, and now home to various lawnmowers and storage bins. I bought the property years ago and was especially drawn to the barn because it reminded me of my homestead. The barn from my youth, too, was old and neglected. But it had belonged to my grandparents and my Mom often regaled us with stories of her experiences as a farm girl growing up. By the time we lived there, though, it was all a memory and, much like this barn, it was used as a shed.

I was reaching for the rake when I saw it. The ghostly white face with black, beady eyes. At the back of the barn, perched on a lone post. Its brown and white feathers hanging over the rotten wood, as if growing into it. A barn owl. Stoic and still. Looking not at me, but more through me. As if I was just there and it was okay with that. I paused the podcast echoing in my ears and was momentarily startled, rake in hand, when the phone rang.

“Hey,” I answered, within seconds of putting the rake down and pressing the button on the bottom left of my bluetooth headphones. “Oh hey, hi John, what’s up?”

I started walking out of the barn and noticed I was a bit out of breath from my brief time outside, and momentarily embarrassed that I sounded as though I had just run a marathon.

“Hey Emmy. Um, what are you doing right now?” he asked, sounding a little off.

“Just in the backyard by the barn, trying to get started on raking the leaves. What’s up? Everything okay?”

And then, I don’t remember what happened after that. She’s gone. It’s over. We need to get to Dad’s place. Can you drive? Leaves underneath my rubber boots, sticking to the wet parts going up the side. The faint sounds of laughter from the podcast clamouring from my dangling headphones. The smell of autumn. The smell of dirt. The smell of death?

I made my way into the house and it may have taken me minutes or hours, I can’t really recall. I do recall though that John was on his way and we were going to see Mom. I mean, Dad. We were going to see Dad because Mom was now gone.

It wasn’t unexpected and we all had been waiting for this moment for the last year. When Mom got the diagnosis just after last Christmas, we didn’t really know what to expect to be honest. ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, it wasn’t anything we really knew about. And as the season’s changed, we learned with Mom what all of it meant. It started off slow, kind of like the winter. Nothing big, nothing changing, kind of calm. Then as the spring came, the ice melting and the sun pushing its way back into the world, her speech started going. By summer, it was worse. It was hot. It was messy. And now here we were. A full circle was coming and it was over. Though she didn’t quite make it through autumn.

I stood at my back entrance for a moment or two, pondering the seasons and the changes that came and the death that was now fresh on my boots. Then I realized I had actually carried the rake in with me. Thankfully, I stood in my wet boots still. I slid the back door open and made my way back to the barn. This was good. It gave me a moment to walk again with a clearer head and sense of purpose.

I started structuring the rest of the day out in my head now. First I’d put the rake back. Then I’d make sure the lights in that old barn were off and everything was locked up. Then I’d get back to the house and change and maybe pack a bag just in case Dad wanted us to stay the night. And John. I felt bad about John now. I could have driven, but now he had to come get me and play the Knight in Shining Armour. That was okay though. Maybe this was giving him a sense of purpose too so that we can just get to Dad’s and just find out what happened and just, figure all of this out.

Death was new to me. It was new to my younger brother too. Death was like a distant cousin that only came to take, well, distant cousins. I had never even been to a funeral. I looked around the barn now, as I placed the rake back alongside the other yard tools. The barn really makes me think of Mom. The darkness of it. The earthiness of it. It all brings me back to my childhood and the memories of being outside at night, helping my Mom on summer evenings with yard work. This barn was so similar and familiar. It was old and forgotten, but still with a purpose. Empty horse stalls and old hay practically burned into the mud floor. As I stood there, I saw her again. Still sitting on the post, as still as a fixture. I always thought barn owls were nocturnal. And I realized at that moment that this indeed was rare. A beautiful rare moment, here on a day when death is here and tapping on my shoulder reminding me that life is fleeting and seasons can change at the drop of a hat.

I stopped and stared more, not wanting to leave the moment. It came flooding over me then, the memories of owls and my mother’s owl-like features. Her pointy nose. Her curious eyes. Her collection of the damn things all over her house. Every Christmas she got either a new figurine or a piece of jewelry. It was her thing. Her spirit animal. And it always seemed fitting because she indeed was a night owl. She’d stay up until well after everyone else had descended to bed, watching old movies on TV or playing Pogo games online. Tea would be flowing, and sometimes long conversations with her friends that grew louder and louder as the rest of the house grew quieter and quieter.

“Hey, Mrs.Owl…” I quietly said, daring to speak to her and maybe at the same time hoping she would go away so that I too could go away and get back to the house. “Whatcha doin’ here in the middle of this beautiful day.”

She didn’t move, she didn’t flinch. She stayed. Stoic, still and stubborn. It was clear this was her post and she had no ambitions to move since indeed it was a lovely day outside.

She stayed still, like Mom did for the last month. Not ready to take flight. Not able to take flight really. Stoic and still with memories of long nights, hot cups of tea and laughter so contagious it was no wonder anyone went to bed at any hour.

I couldn’t stay there. I wanted to. I wanted to take up shop and sit down on the dark, damp earthy floor and stare with the owl. Stare at the owl and make sense of all of this. But I realized there was no sense in that. This wasn’t my post. This was hers.

“Ok, goodnight Mrs. Owl,” I said, as I turned and shut off the lights behind me and made my way back to the house to ready myself for the days ahead.