The Sow Barn and the Persistence of Memory

The sow barn still sits at the edge of the woods,
silent and close to collapsing.
The larger barn, the place you climbed
and explored as a child.
The barn with its loft full of hay bales
and lower level of corn cribs,
the place your grandfather hid his Playboys and bourbon,
childhood discoveries,
all of it burnt to the ground a decade ago;
your memories a mere scar in the ground,
grass grown over it all, but
dig your toe in the dirt, and there are still ashes.
The sow barn somehow survived the flames,
but it is silent now. No piglets. No squealing and grunting
sows. It has been long enough
even the smell has gone. Only the shell remains,
and unused, it is not far from falling,
and with it childhood memories
that live now only in your memory,
the place, the sounds, the smells the sights
no less vivid for the time and life
that have passed. Some things, it appears,
are stronger than reality.

About this poem

I went to visit my Aunt Jeanie yesterday, my dad’s sister and a wonderfully young 90 years old. She lives in my grandparents’ home, where she was raised. I spent summers there, so I have deep, deep memories.

The photograph is of the sow barn. The main barn stood butted up next to it, and burned down a decade or so ago.

A poem about those memories, and how memory can be so very powerful.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom

My Aunt Jeanie and I.