Here I am. The car door creaks; the mid morning sun makes me squint. I look, down the slope of weedy pasture to my old barn, now lifeless, buried under creeping vines, waist tall wild roses, and lots of poison ivy. Hopefully, this will be the last time. After the barn is cleared out I won’t have to come back here again. No more crying. I’ve cried enough and the new owners might be here.

“Ballina”, our farm, looks unused and alone with weeds clogging our flowerbeds, choking our hydrangea. Everything is dry, too dry just as I am, coming back to this place, this land, this view from the hill that I gazed on every morning. I used to count on that view to keep me balanced, to fill me with its every nuance, and to reassure me with its familiarity.

I used to scan the field from my bathroom window as I brushed my teeth. I’d look for our horses just outside, their hindquarters to me, their heads looking east. I thought they stood in that spot every morning to watch the sun rise and in the winter to feel its first warm rays.

Later, I’d put on my barn clothes (a pair of old tan pants and a turtle neck in winter or a T-shirt in summer) call the dogs, put on my work gloves, wellies and walk outside. As I walked around the house I’d scan the sky, feel the wind, and call the dogs back to me. They loved to race round and round my legs as I opened the gate, walked across the field, and listened for Peader’s whiny. Usually Peader was waiting in his stall except in early spring when the grass was too good to leave behind even for a handful of feed and a pet from me.

I’d muck out the stalls, sweep the floor, and refill the water buckets and hayracks. I loved the mindless routine of it. As I worked I’d watch my neighbors leave for school or work. Sometimes we’d wave to one another or even yell “Hey” across the fields.

Once many years ago, a flock of snow geese flew over me, over our field. I stood watching, transfixed. Funny, standing here now I can hear the sound of their trumpeting, in this empty place I once called Ballina.