The rocking chair I’d purchased specifically for this moment creaked under my weight as I settled into it. The elk had moved deeper into the clearing. A hawk traced lazy circles overhead, riding invisible thermal currents. Somewhere far in the distance, a truck engine hummed along the highway, faint as a half-forgotten memory.
I extracted my phone and dialed my daughter.
“Dad.” Bula’s voice arrived bright and immediate, Denver civilization on one end of the connection, Wyoming wilderness on the other. “Are you there? Did you actually do it?”
“Signed the papers this morning,” I confirmed. “I’m sitting on my porch right now watching elk graze.”
“I’m so incredibly proud of you.” The warmth saturating her tone made my chest constrict. “You earned this. Forty years of hard work.”
I sipped the coffee. “Forty years I spent dreaming about mornings where I’d drink coffee while watching wildlife instead of highway traffic crawling along Interstate 25.”
“You deserve every single moment of peace,” she said softly. A pause stretched between us. “Cornelius has been dealing with so much stress from work lately. Sometimes I forget what peaceful even looks like anymore.”
Something in her phrasing made me hesitate. “Everything alright with you two?”
“Oh, fine. You know how middle management is. Constant pressure.” She laughed, but the sound seemed thin, stretched too taut.
“When are you planning to visit?”
“Anytime you want, honey. You know that.”
We talked for ten more minutes. She described her students at the public school in Denver, detailed her garden plans for their subdivision yard, navigated through safe conversational territory.
When we disconnected, I remained seated watching the sun paint the mountains in shades of orange and purple. The coffee had gone cold, but I drank it regardless.
