There is a place of dreams,
an old red barn with memories
of my grandfather who was
and now is not,
Buried beneath a granite slab
with Nana now by his side.
How do I recall the days that were?
With him walking the earth
With him feeding the cows
With him cutting the hay
With him in his chair silently puffing his pipe
With him fishing along the banks of Black Ledge Creek
With him rushing out the door during Christmas dinner, donning his fireman’s hat as he went.
With him that one and only time he let me help pluck the feathers from the warm breast of a pheasant he had shot—a task usually reserved for his grandsons.
And we stood behind the old red barn
Where his fishing boat stayed in the winter
Only to be towed back to Moosehead Lake in Maine the next summer
To the place of his dreams and deep desires,
the place he brought his bride to all those long years ago,
the place that he loved,
the place of his being,
the place that he died one summer.
But the old red barn is empty now
Save for his memory
or his ghost.
~Kathie Adams Brown (April 1, 2015)