The barn door creaks as I open it. Smells of rotting hay and manure greet my nostrils when I enter. Gray, old, dying. The wood building, the land on which it squats, had been my father’s pride. I’d inherited the farm—the one I hated, the one I left so long ago. Memories are like bits of exploding glass: sharp, insistent, painful. The hay pile. I laugh.
Wolves
Wolves
Wolves
The barn door creaks as I open it. Smells of rotting hay and manure greet my nostrils when I enter. Gray, old, dying. The wood building, the land on which it squats, had been my father’s pride. I’d inherited the farm—the one I hated, the one I left so long ago. Memories are like bits of exploding glass: sharp, insistent, painful. The hay pile. I laugh.