The fierce bite of winter has struck the Red Barn neighborhood like a hound attacking its unsuspecting prey. The central road is cracked in scattered places through years of negligence; they say the road has not been paved since the Seventies, and one look can confirm this. In rainy weather, larger holes at the edges and bends of the road overflow with mushy brown slop that the human eye cannot see through. But now, the son and daughter crystals of winter have gathered upon the road’s banks and the brown slop is murky thin ice. Snow falls as slow as the last autumn leaf dwindling to the ground; nevertheless, a rather tedious effort is required to remove it from the varying heights of the road. Often heavy wind noisily gusts through the area like a lion roaring at a wimpy zebra, leaving absolutely no mercy for it. Assorted trees surround the road from afar, towering over miniscule houses the way humans look at ants. Cars rarely pass unless they are inspecting the lifeless houses or are passing by this section of the neighborhood by accident.

Halfway down the street lurks a gray house with an unpaved driveway and boarded up windows. Many say it was the home of an old woman who had lived in the house for fifty years until finally dying. A dilapidated flag still rests on the doorstep, accompanied by an old bike rusted from years without use, the “Trek” labels slowly peeling off of its sides. A fifties thermometer hangs near the half intact porch, the red bar still pleading its existence to any eyes that glance towards it.

A little farther down the road, a large tree stands tall and stable despite the vehement wind. Its large branches once home to bright green leaves are now snowy bland brown sticks withstanding the fierce winter they have become so accustomed to throughout their life. Red cardinals who didn’t make it south in time helplessly chirp in the trees like wandering souls. They shiver in the bitter coldness and endlessly call for the mate that they will never find, first struggling and then failing to find food to survive.

A light yellow house is situated to the right of the large tree, once home to a sizable family who, once their children graduated, escaped the high taxes of the town for the next phase of their life. A worn tire swing still hangs from the tree from once thick and strong ropes, now uncoiled and weak like a world-class wrestler grown old and frail. Children with their parents often swing on it in the summer, straining and creaking the ropes and branch the way like old wooden steps. If a passerby were to look closely at the tire, he could barely detect “Goodyear – Made in the USA” etched along the outer lining of it. A large patch of dead grass sits where a large tree house used to stand, built by one of the sons of the family and subsequently torn down when the family moved away. Discolored paint from the light blue and green walls of the old treehouse provide distinctive color in the otherwise insipid grey snow, crying for its memories to be relived.

In one driveway rests a large basketball hoop, its netting almost completely eaten by the monster of time and frozen from the frigid weather. In the front yard, masses of dried up flowers from summers long ago lie in mulch that is almost completely dissolved into the soil. Curled, withered petals are frozen within the ice that encases their last moment of life. A small pool in the backyard is covered by a large green tarpaulin sinking into the pool in its center concealing memories of past summers. It begs to be lifted up from its misery and put to use, but a large fence and padlock guard it, separating the past from the future.

The sounds of cars speeding down the main road are far away. Here in the Red Barn neighborhood, only occasional whistling winds and chirping birds break through to the silent, peaceful houses.