Empty Stalls and Heavy Hearts

It ain’t always sunshine and green pastures out here, though I wish it were. Sometimes, it’s just the wind rustling through an empty stall, and a quiet that settles heavily on your shoulders.

Yesterday was one of those days.

I’d been keeping a watchful eye on the two pregnant momma cows. We’d all been waiting—me, the dogs, the wind that came down off the ridge at night—for signs they were close.

And they were. Bellies low, bagged up, tails swishing more from nerves than flies.

It’s a hopeful kind of watching. You start thinking ahead.

Two calves, both heifers, maybe. That would mean growth. Not just more mouths to feed, but a promise. Especially for Jim.

Now, Jim’s not here in this story, but he’s a part of it all the same. He’s got pancreatic cancer. Keeps to his chores when he can, but lately it’s been more watching than doing.

Still, these cows—these babies—they were his hope. You know how some folks plant trees for a future they’ll never see? Jerry’s been breeding cattle. He was hoping these two heifers would one day help carry on his little herd long after he’s finished walkin’ the fields.

Yesterday, that hope got knocked clean out of the barn.

One of the calves was just too big. I had to pull it. I don’t know how long it’d been stuck, but it was long enough. Long enough to take a breath before ever drawing one. The baby was a beauty, too, with long legs and soft eyes. Would’ve made a fine cow.

I sat there a long while after, just brushing the hay off her and thinking too many thoughts all at once. That cow mama stood close by, nuzzling her baby like she was trying to wake her up. You never get used to that.

The second was stranger. No signs of struggle, no distress. Looked perfect. She’d been born sometime the day before, and I hadn’t noticed the cow missing from feed until last night. When I went looking, I found her standing alone, quiet, the calf at her feet.

Just gone. Dead and done before I ever had a chance to hope.

So now Jim’s back to square one. The mommas will need time to recover, and the rhythm of the farm stumbles just a bit. Folk forget that hope takes time to grow, and when it dies, it doesn’t vanish; it lies there in the straw and waits for you to acknowledge it.

Still, we carry on. That’s what you do out here. You let the dogs run ahead, you check the fences, you spread out hay like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll see a new bud on a fencepost vine or catch the mommas sunbathing and chewing cud like nothing ever went wrong.

Farm life’s like that. It breaks your heart soft and slow, but it also hands it back to you stitched up with sunshine, coffee, and barn dust.

Anyway, that’s how yesterday went. Quiet. Heavy. Real.