It groaned with the weight of a family’s heartbreak, amidst twisted tin and ash. Transformed from machine to monument, in the blink of an eye. It beckoned memories, which rose from smoldering embers, to sit one last time.
Of long, dusty days that stretched into night
Of leather gloves, smelling of diesel and dirt, that could design perfectly symmetrical rows
Of a little girl’s delight, on a worn out knee, riding one last time into the sunset sky
And brothers, who tried their fledgling wings behind the unsteady wheel
As night fell on the old and trusted friend, resolve sneaked out of the ashes
And promised to embrace -every ordinary moment- as if it were a priceless treasure
The last picture taken of The Old Barn (here) was captured three months before a fire burned it to the ground. We all love storybook endings, but mostly, life doesn’t comply. Thankfully, with loss comes the possibility of deeper understanding, which can direct us toward some pretty amazing redemptive power.
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