LOSS

It is four in the morning, and the old man lies awake in his bed, listening to the sounds of the morning. He hears the rooster crow and knows it is time to get up and start his daily chores. Slowly, he rises and walks across the cold floor, passing the window with rain splashing against it. He stops and sees his reflection in the dark window. The lines on his forehead and eyes seem deeper than they had the morning before, and, through the rain, his blue eyes are dull and empty. He carelessly dresses himself in his old plaid shirt, overalls, and boots, and continues down the stairs and out the door. He does not notice that the door, part of the old house he has always taken care of, has a rip in the screen and a rusty hinge.

The dark morning sky trembles as the rain continues to drizzle down, and the old man trudges across the yard towards the barn. The rain beats upon his back, and his clothes are soaked by the time he is halfway to the unpainted fence. He had thought about painting it this morning, but with the rain, that possibility is gone. Being a man of efficiency, he usually hates when his plans are delayed, but today, he simply glances and walks past the fence and finally reaches the barn.

An old tire swing hangs from a rafter of the large barn, squeaking as it swings back and forth from the draft of the open door. The man's mind instantly jumps back to the joy of his son, being pushed on that swing as a child. The little boy would swing for hours, until his father's arms ached from the continuous motion of pushing the suspended tire. It swings as it did after the boy finally went in for dinner, slowing to a gentle stop. Now the tire is filled with leaves and water from the leaking ceiling. The man doubts that the rotting rope would hold the weight of even a small child anymore.

Continuing with his chores, the man feeds the cows, brushes the horses, and sits, counting the eggs from the chickens. He is almost finished when he realizes that he has not been keeping count. He tries again, but his mind keeps wandering to other places. He thinks of the past, his family, his wife, his son. Frustrated, he gives up and climbs the ladder to the hayloft. At the top, he looks down, pondering what it would be like to jump, fly out of the loft and away, maybe to a foreign country, but he knows that he can never leave the farm. He built it with his father and brothers, and he had raised his own son in this house, on this land. He forgets what it is he was planning to do in the loft, so he carefully climbs back down and walks out of the barn, leaving the door open and the tire swing swinging in the breeze.

Back outside the rain has slowed to resemble a mist from a distant waterfall. To the man, it seems as though a light blanket is covering the fields and pond. He walks back through the blanket towards the house, which looks grey in the foggy light. His old truck, a green Chevy, stands over by the oak tree. He finds himself walking towards it. It is a good truck, though its paint is chipping and the engine makes a strange noise. The old man opens the door and climbs inside. Sitting on the vinyl seat, he starts the car, and waits in the cold. Then he starts to drive.

He drives up the muddy road to the top of the hill overlooking his farm and turns off the engine. He can see everything: the farm, the house, even the old oak tree. He steps out of the car and sits on the ground, watching as the sun attempts to rise through the mist.

Copyright c 2004 The Spokesman-Review
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