Shafts of sunlight found their way into the barn through tiny peepholes and cracks. The barn was ancient, with cracked and peeling paint but it stood stoically almost proud of its age and longevity. Cobwebs coated most of the ceiling and corners. It was quiet, peaceful. The property was secluded and rarely visited. The grass was long and tangled and puddles occupied most of the overgrown dirt driveway.

As you reached the aged red barn, you would pull open the decaying door with squeaky hinges. Then you would step in, cough at all the dust that had accumulated over the years, and stare. Stare at all of the mottled wooden stalls that housed horses years before, stare at old leather bridles waiting to be cleaned, stare at the graveyard of yesteryears. Even a pair of boots was left in the corner. Everything was placed so that it seemed that one day no one came back to the barn. You would explore the stalls, the musty tack room full of old saddles and tattered ribbons, and climb the ladder to see where it would take you. The ladder would be rickety, unsafe, but you would climb it anyway. Once you climbed your way to the top you would again stare. You would see a small stack of hay in the corner, pitchforks leaning against the thin wall, and bird nests placed in every nook and cranny. You would feel exhilarated thinking that you uncovered secret history but also sad, thinking of the people who left it.

Soon you would grow tired of sitting in the dusty hayloft, promise to come back, but you won’t. You will climb back down the unsteady ladder and place your feet on the solid dirt floor. You will sigh, almost content with your find, and leave the barn with a smile on your face. You may see yourself coming back, but that will never happen. You are one of many. The many who come and leave but never come back. I am used to false promises. You will get back in you car, and drive down the dirt driveway lain with puddles and where the grass is long and tangled.