The old cow barn still stands. The tobacco barn has burned, the corncrib long forgotten. The cow barn with its hayloft and shed sides still support the stalls, weathered and worn to near total destruction.
Just tear it down is the newfangled wisdom. My brother arched his brows and stood firm. The swallows return to their nests each year and as long as I am alive they will not be disturbed , he firmly declared. My brother is the caretaker now of the fence rows and meadows, of the cherry trees, of the creek beds, of the springs hidden deep in the woods.
The world has encroached in the many years since the swallows came to nest in the breezeway of the barn. As the cows lumbered to the stalls for morning milking, the swallows darted and dove in and out as their naked necked babies peered over the mud nests. The swallows are back my mom would say as she milked. My youngest brother came last to the family. A late in life baby. A late winter baby full of the promise of spring.
My brother is a prodigy. He learned to sing before he was sturdy enough to walk. He drew with multi-colored crayons before he could construct a full sentence. He learned the curly dramatic shapes of cursive writing long before the jaws of education admonished him to remedial printing. He heard the swift wings of the barn swallows and knew the hope of spring’s promises.
He was the gift.
My brother is an artist. The world is his canvas, the earth his color palette, the hills, creeks, flora and fauna his inspiration. He plays and sings melodies from the spirits that only can be found in the tuning fork of the wind or the birdsong. His words are stitched from volumes of dreams carefully crafted in his notebooks. My brother sees, hears, lives his art. A new emerging bud, a feather, a whippoorwill call, the color of the morning sky, the tiny blue of barefoot flowers are perfectly rendered on page, poem or palette.
My brother’s soul is tender.
My brother’s heart is open.
My brother’s love is pure.
My brother is The Gift.