Swinging

I swear going to the old barn was not my idea. Not to throw blame, but it was Emmy’s. I said we can’t go, it’s too dangerous. She replied she’ll go alone if I’m too chicken. I thought it better to go and be the responsible one. I should have insisted more. That was the start of the unraveling of my life.

The first time I saw the old barn was when we drove by to our new house. Dad pointed out the sagging roof and missing boards.

“It’s an Amish barn,” he had said, “raised by their own hands, probably at least sixty years old.”

Emmy and I had pressed our faces to the glass, trying to see everything about the barn before we speed past.

The first time I went in the barn was when dad walked us through the fields to take a closer look, after strict warnings of only coming here with adult supervision and explicit permission. I’d like to say I remember everything about stepping over that threshold, that there was an unexplainable cloud of dread that followed me through the doors. But, honestly, what I do remember is the half inch splinter I got trying to push open the double doors. I was preoccupied with trying no to cry. I do remember a thick rope hanging from a rafter and an old pile of straw. I remember sitting on the bathroom counter watching my mom use a needle to remove the splinter from my finger. I didn’t even flinch. Okay, I did flinch but I didn’t cry at all. Not even a little bit.

The first time I went to the barn with out supervision was late one summer afternoon. Emmy insisted we go to the barn, I said no. She went by herself and I followed, always trying to be the responsible sister. Emmy is older by five years but she always said I was older in spirit, and much more responsible.

This time I do remember things about the barn. The big double doors, aged wood splintering at the edges. Interlocking slats of the same wood covering the outside framing. Pieces were missing randomly around the space, late afternoon sun catching the dust floating through the air. There was what resembled a loft on the back wall. A haphazard latter and hanging boards the only clue it once existed. The rope still hung from the rafter, secured with a loop through knot at the top, the frayed end hanging down just out of reach. The straw still sat piled in the corner, molding or drying or doing whatever straw did as it aged. Emmy and I looked around, awestruck by the building that has stood for decades.

That first trip was the spring board for our excursions to the barn. Since we were deemed old enough to watch ourselves while our parents were at work, we were free to do as we pleased. We had no friends to socialize with, since fall classes had yet to start and the neighbors were too far way to walk to. So everyday after mom and dad left Emmy and I would race to the barn. Emmy, being more reckless or far braver than I, soon found that by standing on the first rungs of the latter and grabbing the rope, you could swing almost all the way to the door and back to have a soft landing in the straw. This back and forth occupied us until our hunger drove us home for lunch.

I embraced our new pastime with, perhaps, even more excitement than Emmy. I was looking to drive out the shadows I saw dancing on the wall when Emmy swung. The momentary weightless feeling was enough to forget the way Emmy’s hands hung by her side and her feet went limp in the dark spots cast by the sun shining though the missing boards. I let the breezy in my hair clear my mind of any thoughts, sometimes hanging upside down until the blood rushing to my head lead to white spots cloud my vision, pushing out the shadows.

I would go to the barn every day, regardless if Emmy came with me. Usually she did, wanting to chase the high of danger with me. One Saturday we snuck out, even though our parent were home. I was sure we had gotten way with it until our dad rushed in through the barn doors.

“What are you doing?” The sharp edge in his voice made me jump up from the straw.

“Hi dad! I’m playing with Emmy, see our swing.”

Dad look like someone slapped him.

“Oh, Honey, come on let’s go home.”

“Why dad, we’re still playing.”

“Come on,” he held his hand out to me and stated walking out the door, “Emmy’s not here. She died last year, Rosie.”