Yesterday, I visited my family’s farmland for the last time. The new owners gain access to the property today, so my family and I drove out to say one final farewell.
Nothing had changed, except perhaps the size of things. Most of my memories of the farm were made when I was a child, so, even though I’ve visited numerous times as an adult, I still expect the barn to be larger than life, the windmill to stretch miles above my head, and the field at the back to extend out of sight. It makes me uneasy when I can clamber up onto this ledge or that bale of hay without issue, as if it’s wrong for me to conquer this world which stands so perfectly in my child’s mind as limitless.
Before leaving, we saw creatures at the back of the farm, crouched acres away where the brown field meets the treeline. Were they deer? Coyotes? Wolves? We couldn’t tell, not even when we took a picture and zoomed in the lens. On the small, digital screen they looked like indistinct paint smudges, always too formless to identify, to name.
They remained mysterious as we backed out of the long driveway and pulled onto the country road, reminding me I was leaving a sacred place. So, shhh, hush, I’ll say no more.
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