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This haymow holds many memories

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(I wrote this nearly 20 years ago. Since we just celebrated again at the farm in Iowa, barn dance and all, this adds some more about all that.)

It is the day after. Nearly everyone else has left, and I am sitting by myself in the empty haymow of my dad's dad's once-huge red barn. I say once-huge, because it has in some mysterious way shrunk with my adulthood. The barn and I are alone; it with its emptiness; I with my memories.

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