The Night Owl

The hay crunched underneath the weight of my stubborn feet. What was I doing here?

I always asked myself that question.

What? Why? How?

I felt my stomach grumble and suddenly the idea of any metaphorical quest exhausted me.

It was dark in the stables, with only a few of the electric lights burning on the walls.

What was I doing here?

Two years ago, I would’ve sold my every possession to get away from this town, to escape like a thief in the night and never return, and yet, here I was- back in the autumn night air in the prairie state. My mother had begged me not to go, saying I had no money, no plans, no one to fall back on, and so after weeks of trying to convince myself that I could escape, I relented. I had agreed to stay on the condition that I would work on the farm for a living wage, I would tend to the horses for a salary that could buy me a modest apartment and help me save for my future move. They had reluctantly agreed, and now two years of smothered resentment later, here I was. Still tending the horses.

My hands clenched.

The wind blew through the open doors of the small barn, and I wanted to run.

Snatching the flashlight I brought with me, I began climbing the metal rungs of the ladder that led to the loft. As I climbed, the scent of old rust filled my nose, bringing tears to my eyes.

I hated this place.

When I reached the loft, I almost laughed at the disordered mess that sat before me, like a tornado had traveled miles to destroy a single room, not caring about the rest of the stupid barren state.

Shaking my head, I stumbled past the clutter to the window that when opened, led to the roof. With a hard shove, the old frame creaked from its position, and I crawled through the small hole. Balancing on the edge of the sill, I reached out to grab the roof, my feet slipping on the slight edge of the wall. Panic filled my bones as I clawed at the roof, my hold just enough to keep me from falling over. With a grunt, I slowly pulled myself up to the top of the barn. It was surprisingly high for being such an old building. My parents had often marveled at how it hadn’t crumpled in before they had started working on it, adding electricity and renovations where it was needed to keep the frame standing up. They had done most of it themselves. It was a good job.

Shivering in the cold November air, I sighed and watched my breath escape in a cloud from my mouth.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to throw myself off the roof to prove I had control over my life, that at any point it was mine for the taking. I fumbled over to the edge of the tin roof. My footsteps created a muffled knock. I peered across the edge. The packed plains ground stared menacingly back at me.

I could jump.

I was at least fifty feet up and then there were the old wooden stalls that could pierce me if necessary. But I didn’t want to die.

I just wanted to be free.

Was that so bad?

It took me a minute to notice the tears dripping down my face, but by then the sob was building up in my throat, and without any restraint, I let its broken quavering sound escape. I had never wanted to stay here, all my life I had looked for an escape from this place. As a child, I had just wanted adventure, and now, all I wanted was freedom. To pick up my suitcase and run. But part of me worried that I was tethered to this town where no one could recall anything but a thousand yesterdays, where I knew the face behind every door, where everything was nothing but what it had always been.

The tears were falling harder now, and I didn’t try to stifle them. Their salty taste reminded me that I wasn’t dead, that if nothing else it was good to be alive and breathing here in this place.

Still, I wish I could fly away.

Backing up from the edge of the roof, I sat down and felt the cold of the metal against my legs. It was frigid, and I wanted nothing more than to be done with today, but I wasn’t ready to go inside.

Wiping my face, I looked out across the plains, noting the way they seemed to carry on forever. It was almost peaceful.

Feeling the pressure in my chest ease, I watched the horizon, lost in its nightly glow. I don’t know how long I sat there, my fingers and nose numb from the cold, but suddenly, a barn owl, brown and hunched flew past my eyes before landing at the edge of the roof. It seemed to eye me suspiciously as it twisted its head. I stayed still, waiting for it to make up its mind, as it fluttered its wings.

I had never really seen an owl so close before. Sure, I would hear them in the night and early morning when I got up to start the day, and I had seen some fly out from the barn before, but those were quick interactions. Nothing like this.

I continued watching the owl. He preened his feathers, taking time to clean his warm spotted self. Suddenly, he peered back up at me, his eyes wide and knowing. I felt transparent before his rounded gaze.

He hopped for a moment, and part of me wondered if he would come closer, but shaking his feathers, he flew away, his brown body disappearing into the horizon. The cold bit at my skin and the wind was starting to pick back up again, jarring me with its sharp edge, but I sat there for a while, watching him go, cold and hungry and wanting to fly.