One of my favorite roads to drive, when we need to go to town, is this one that rolls up and down through the eastern Colorado grasslands. The sky fills the world with blue and I can understand why those who settled here decided that this would be their place. But I wonder as I do every time I pass an old homestead, why they abandoned it. The original farm house stands off by itself, with trees they must have planted a hundred years ago, lonely except for the hawks hunting mice and the occasional antelope, deer or coyote. I can hear this family gathered around the table to share a meal or having early morning coffee before they go out to do the chores. The children sitting around that table doing their figures and learning their letters while their mother adds to the pot on the cook stove for their noon meal. In the afternoon, the children would have finished up any chores they had and then they’d have been free to explore as long as they stayed together, discovering arrowheads or dinosaur bones or a nest of baby birds. Snug in their log home in winter, they’d be so grateful for the peppermint stick at Christmas and family prayers before bed. The writer in me can construct the whole story, but I can’t get my brain wrapped around the leaving.