I remember the barn.
It was gray, lifeless. It sat on the empty lot beside my grandmother's house. She didn't live there anymore; she was rotting away in a nursing home. The new owners cut down my beloved huge maple tree in the front yard, and now my uncle was going to tear down the barn.
The street was empty, and the snow fell rhythmically around me. I remember being confused as to how so much could descend from the sky, but still remain completely silent as it settled on the ground. Everything felt ethereal and alien; the sound of my shoes crunching in the show, my breath in the air, the snowflakes on my uncle's hair and shoulders. Was this real?
That morning I had told my mother I was considering killing myself. I remember her face twisting in despair, her eyes welling, her body sinking into the kitchen chair nearest our old, yellow telephone. She picked up the receiver and frantically searched through her address book, screaming that she was going to call my therapist. I perceived this as a threat. I was angry with her. I didn't understand her reaction; hurting myself seemed practical and understandable to me. I begged her to hang up the phone and let me go to school. To 'just be normal', as if that had ever been a truthful goal or request in the past. She was reluctant; her face and nightgown were stained with tears. Broken, she gave me permission to attend school but wouldn't let me drive. She would drop me off, and my uncle Denny would pick me up after the final bell.
.
I braced myself for the cold as I pushed open the doors of my bustling high school and made my way to my uncle's little black pick-up truck. Although I loved my uncle, we were never really close. The realization that he knew my weaknesses and tendencies toward self-destruction was awkward and humiliating. I hated for people to know that I was vulnerable; I hated giving anyone the chance to 'get in'. My uncle danced delicately around the subject; aversion of painful topics was one of his main specialties. I focused on maintaining a balance of friendly and reserved, and watched out the window as route 219 unfolded. The hills and turns that I had grown so familiar with seemed to be coated in a clear varnish; I could recognize what was there, but couldn't touch it; the real 'it'. Everything felt as though it was unraveling in a dream. I closed my eyes and shook my head, but nothing cleared; nothing made sense.
Finally we arrived at the barn. My uncle started listing the history of the little dilapidated structure, and what parts he had built himself. We stepped inside. Finally, an escape from the garish bright whiteness of sky and snow. Loose boards littered the earthen floor, the corners of plastic tarps danced in the cold draft. It was solemn and quiet; the poor building lie in disarray as if it didn't have a friend in the world. In some strange way, I felt a sort of kinship with the empty barn. I felt sorry for it. I wanted to love it and hold it and assure it of its worth and value. I wanted to lie down in it and close my eyes; steady my breath. I wanted to scream at my uncle; make him leave. I wanted the barn to be mine. I wanted to give it my heartbeat.
I was restless and twitchy as my uncle continued his narrative. I could feel my blood pulsing in my fingertips. I didn't know how to handle this surge of desire and love for something so positively inanimate.
I then heard wheels on gravel. I peered through a slash in the wooden walls, easing my gaze to the front of the barn's property. My parents had arrived, my mother behind the steering wheel and my father slumped on the passenger's side. There it was again: the humiliation, the shame. I hated him, but wanted his approval more than anything (a characteristic that would be found in most of my future relationships). I didn't know what his reaction would be. Would he continue to exhibit his facade of eternal disappointment? I couldn't meet their gaze. I felt like such a failure. I forced myself to pretend that the snow on my shoes was the most fascinating occurrence, one that my attention was magnetized too. If I broke concentration, I was positive that I would break down into tears and embarrassment. I wished that I could be as empty inside as the barn.
My father opened the car door, his cane met the ground at the same time as his orthopedic shoes. My nervousness grew. He slowly and silently walked towards me. I met his gaze as he stood directly in front of me. I fought through the shame; my eyes and sinuses burning from keeping in the overwhelming urge to cry. And to my surprise, he set down his cane and gave me a full embrace. I couldn't breathe. I remember my only thought being, 'This is the first time he's hugged me in years.'
