As the Color Fades Away

[This is a description of a barn I used ride at every summer when from when I was nine to twelve.]

My Favorite Place

It’s around two o’clock and the horses are getting fed and I can smell the fresh hay being put down in their stalls. I move out of the way as girls rush past carrying the large bundles down the long hallway. The floor is dusted with golden strands and coated in a film of glistening mud: a barn’s collage. There are large haystacks lining the corridor and I hoist myself up onto one, being careful not to tip the pile over in the process. There is a steady downpour framed by the barn door. The hills beyond look beautiful in their silent awakening. The rain makes the colors more alive while making the air more subdued . . . calm. I could sit here forever and breathe in the pungent barn air that most would cringe at. It reminds them of filth. It reminds me of freedom, the beauty of the horses stride; the wind swishing into my ears, echoing the rhythm of each step the horse takes. I close my eyes and fill my lungs to the brim. The rain muffles the sound and puts everything into slow motion. I open my eyes. A horse is looking at me through the bars of his stall. I hop down from the haystack and walk towards the staring face. He comes over and greets me. I stick my hand between the bars and stroke his velvet nose, staring into his glistening eyes.