Marriage is Like a Barn

marriage-is-like-a-barn

Roaming the country roads in my car, I carelessly burn fossil fuels just so I can blow off some steam. Hours earlier, a fight with my husband over forgetting my birthday forced me to flee to these quiet cornfields to ruminate in my resentment. All I see for miles is barns. I bet if I threw a rock, I’d hit one. I feel like throwing something.

For as long as I can remember I’ve over-romanticized them, these weather-worn post and beam buildings. I point them out a lot while driving, my pint-sized passengers as seasoned with this habit of mine as the timbers used in their construction. They patiently put up with me whenever I stop and take pictures.

But up close, barns aren’t that beautiful. They smell. Like mildew and manure. They’re hot and dusty and dirty, and sometimes, when I’m inside one of them, I feel like I’m suffocating.

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