Manners

My best friend while I was growing up lived on a farm that, in my opinion, should have been condemned. The buildings there were falling apart so badly that I never dare rest myself against them. I'd surely end up speared by rotted wood. There was also not one, single green blade of grass for the animals to eat. I always looked their way in pity, wishing I could make it all better for them. Everything there was dull, dirty and dangerous. Not a place children should be allowed to play. My friend's parents never seemed to be around though which I never questioned. My friend, she like to live on the edge. She loved wild, chaotic wind. She would always say it made her feel alive. I remember her climbing to the very top of the poorly stacked hay bails and yelling out into the sky as loud as she could. Some days she would yell out of happiness and joy. Open arms, a huge smile on her face, dimples the biggest I've ever seen. Her hair would whip around chaotically but beautifully. On her happy days, I would dance around at the bottom of the stack and laugh, admiring her, egging her on with my own hoots and hollers. On her not-so-good days, my friend would scream and cry out in sadness and sorrow. Her smile gone and replaced with sad eyes and tear streaked cheeks. She would sob so hard and shake so much. I didn't know how to help on her sad days. I just sat and waited patiently until she decided she was ready to come down. When she did come down, she would just usually keep her eyes to the ground, ashamed that I had witnessed her despair. I would look her way in pity, wishing I could make it all better for her. There is a barely standing skeleton of a barn that sits on the edge of her parent's property. My friend visits a barn owl that she's named Manners there. Why the name Manners? My friend has told me that the barn owl has the most pleasant manners out of everyone she knows. Everyone one else interrupts and quietly criticizes her. The owl silently coos in empathy. Acknowledging my friend's old, tattered soul. Sometimes, when she's talking passionately about something, she gets so lost in her words and emotions that she practically forgets I'm around. She'll often find herself rambling, laugh, then apologize to me that she's done it again. Within 30 seconds she'll be Miss Motor Mouth again. I don't mind her rambling. I find her endearing. I find her thoughts and ideas stimulating, provoking. Nothing at all like any thoughts the other kids our age were having. My friend and I walk down a pebble road that leads to a cluster of oak trees. To our surprise, Manners the barn owl, perches itself into one of the big oak trees. It seems as though Manners wants to keep an eye on us. Walking through the oak trees, I look up at the branches. I notice the branches that have died and fallen, but have gotten stuck and not made their way to the ground. I believe those deadly branches are called widow makers. I take a moment to make sure we're not walking under any and then notice that my friend has become silent. She looks sad. I'm not good at giving comfort, let alone any type of advice. We walk in silence. Stepping over roots from the big oaks and catching Manners the barn owl out of the corners of our eyes going from branch to branch keeping an eye on us. Maybe my friend likes my company for the same reason she likes the owl. We both don't interrupt her rambling and criticizing her would be the last thing we do. We both follow her. Watching to make sure she's taken care of.