The Book of Change

Outside the double window of my purple childhood room there was a great open field bound by evergreens. Behind the trees, hills. And behind those, the modest mountains of southern New Hampshire. Nights passed with blinking red lights in the distance marking elevation, marking the flight paths of airplanes, marking my breath and sleep.

I still have dreams about the barns that stood near the house on Perry Road. One was wide open and wooden, full of hay warm from its own sweet rot. A hay barn is clean because it only has one purpose, contains only one thing. I didn't know the people who came to hay the fields. I'd see them in the summer, small against the evening sky, slinging hay bails onto the flat-bed pulled by a tractor round and around until it was night. After that, the barn would be full and golden, the field blunt and sharp where the hay had been.

The other barn was massive and dark, covered in tar paper, cracks stuck with bits of rubber and rope. I'd walk through stalls upon stalls of unrecognizable hardware and brittle tack- air as old as the things in there, always cooling, always falling to the floor. The hay barn was more comfortable, but I liked this darker, danker barn more.

I cried on the last night I slept in the house on Perry road. The moving truck was loaded and my mattress was on the floor, the only thing left in my empty room. Looking out the double window into the night, I could feel the field, feel the trees around it, feel the bulk of two barns that hadn't changed much in a hundred years.