For the last eight years I have woken up every morning and looked across the street at an old, rustic chicken barn. The barn was slowly folding into itself, and its loose sheet metal roof ratted musically in the wind. I loved it.
The land it sits on went up for sale a few weeks ago, a "sold" sign went up shortly after, and yesterday the barn was torn down while I was at work. This morning my senses were startled when I glanced out and saw the piles of rubble left behind. Steam rose off the dirt, and it made me sad to think I'd never again hear the roof sing in a storm.
I hope the people who bought the land will build an attractive home there. I hope we will become friendly when I take them home made bread. But mostly I am sad that the empty field won't be empty any more. I'm not very good at accepting change.
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