In the Barn
It’s been leaning for a while,
has needed to come down.
I haven’t really even been out there much
since he died.
Lately, though, it’s been calling to me,
wanting attention as I work toward
leaving this home we all shared together.
So, I gather my courage and take a look.
Emotions stir as I see
a jumble of old bikes and skis,
a favorite hat now housing a bird’s nest,
the remains of the yellow Dancer he so loved -
our kayak beginnings.
Here and there I spot
random Carlson family memorabilia,
brought home when he and his twin brother
helped Nana move after Grandpa died.
I peek into the upstairs loft
once a sort of neighborhood hangout
complete with a crazy zipline
built by you-know-who,
now a resting place for who-knows-what.
Back downstairs …way in the back…
my gaze rests upon the old Glenwood.
Together we moved that woodstove
from a cabin in the woods
to our first house,
then another,
and eventually here.
Though it has not held a fire in years,
the warmth of our bond
kindles deep within
as tender tears surface.
All the way back I go,
to falling in love in the ’59 Rambler
listening to Neil Diamond’s Hot August Night
on the 8-track player.
There, I distinctly feel
a welcome blend
of my growth and healing
and his unwavering
love and support.
I had to go there,
a place I had been avoiding,
to once again feel things anew.
I am so very grateful
for what comes to light… in the barn.
Sarah Carlson
November 17, 2023
