Walking Away

“Don’t fall in love with the land,” he told my father,

one week before he sold off the last parcel he owned.

The one with a lovely home overlooking the river,

where his mother and father passed away

peacefully together within days of each other.

The lovely home where he raised four children.

The lovely home with his family's dairy

and lower and upper fields rich with creeks,

ponds, forests, river banks,

and memories.

His children and others found each barn

as an adventure. All the paths on the property

were bad for bikes

and appropriate for taking chances.

Feeding calves bottles, scooping grain,

and throwing hay bails

was a lifestyle

and a gift for all the families with children

who didn’t farm anymore.

All the nearby farms were leased to him.

Everyone else had jobs in town,

vacations far away, and fewer memories filled

with the fatigue of two daily milkings

and no weekends off.

He remembered. He felt whole when he fell in love

with the land. He left that feeling of creation

for the new owners in each piece of land

he slowly let go.