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)
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