forbidden rungs

My grandfather was a wheat farmer, and he had built a tall, cigar ratio-ed grain silo on his property.

I longed to ascend the side of the silo. It teased me, with those protruding rungs neatly stacked in a hypnotic linear pattern as they spanned from the bottom to the top.

Of course, the silo was forbidden.

“You’ll break something,” they’d say.

In hindsight, I appreciate their concern—as I pass this sense of nervous protection onto the youth of my own family. 

Yet, I can’t help but to stop in mid-thought, occasionally, and recall the day I climbed the silo.

Halfway up, I found a perfectly positioned platform. I discovered it’s where grandpa proposed to grandma; as evidenced by their names, date, and dedication etched into the flaking rusted steel.

I stopped there, gazing over the wind whipped grains of wheat spanning over golden rolling hills. My heart was quiet.

I knew the silo was forbidden, but if it hadn’t been constructed, I wondered if I would have even been brought into this world to pause for this moment.

-m

January 26, 2021

Photo Credit: Torsten Dederichs