The Old Home Place

There it stood, the old barn, forsaken and solitary, its day of usefulness past, and yet seemingly reluctant to crumble into dust. Dense underbrush now spread a curtain around it as if to hide from sight its state of decay. Tired doors hanging askew from twisted, rusted hinges gave proof the old man was doing the right thing.

He gazed at a spot, not far from where the house had once stood, also hidden, over-grown with vegetation; switchgrass waist deep going to seed. He thought he saw his mother standing there, her long tresses pulled up into a tight bun, her apron, trimmed with lace, gathered; forming a cloth basket where she placed one strawberry at a time. Sweets for the children, later, after the chores were done and the sun had set.

He was roused from his daydream. A car stopped; parked at the end of the lane. The driver waved. He waved back and removed his gold pocket watch, a gift from the railroad, from its safe haven. The real estate agent was on time.

He watched him pound a metal sign into the ground, next to the road, a place where buyers could see the large red lettering.

FOR SALE.

He paused, looked back at the barn and thought he heard children’s laughter coming from the hayloft. For a moment he could smell fresh cut hay, the aroma of stables, the smell of animals, but it was soon replaced by the fusty odor of decay. He was doing the right thing.

With remorse in his heart and childhood memories in his mind; the old man turned away from the barn. Swirling clouds of dust, like puppets in the wind, rose around his shoes, covering his footprints as he walked down the lane for the last time.

word count: 300