The first frost chilled the field, stiffening the lengths of dead grass as they swayed gently in the first breath of winter. He stared out from his porch, rocking gently in the chair his grandfather used to sit in after long days in the same field that lay before him now. These days, when there was work to be done, it was done by the cracked and calloused hands of strangers — hired from other towns and other places. The work was no longer in the family, but the iron gate out front still bore their name.

He rocked in the chair, a man of forty-four. A college degree in agricultural management hung in his boyhood room upstairs, which was now his working office. He had moved into his parents’ house shortly after their passing last winter.

The house was built of sodden wood and was in desperate need of repair. No doubt he would hire on more help in the spring. He could survive one more winter given the current shape of things but beyond that, he wasn’t sure.

The disrepair of the house was not what bothered him. It was the emptiness, the sickly quiet. At one time, this house had hosted every family gathering possible. Halloweens where his two younger sisters and he would dress in homemade costumes of their mother’s design and their cousins would come over to rendezvous by the blazing fireplace in the living room. As the sun set, all of them would pile in his father’s car and drive down to the other side of town in search of the best candy — over to the neighborhood that belonged to the rich kids, whose parents were doctors, financial advisors, and other boring things. When twilight had blackened to night, their little troop would return to the farmhouse and treat that same living room floor as a sweets stock exchange.

Thanksgivings came next, with its incredible spread of colorful and glistening food on the long table, the smell of pumpkin pie and cinnamon rolls filling the house along with the unmistakable heavy scent of Aunt Barbara’s perfume. Football hummed on the television, while the room grew louder and louder with drink and excitement, cheers of joy and angry shouts. But always there stood the warm meal at the end to smooth things over.

And best of all, Christmases: the holy grail of holidays, with presents neatly wrapped by loving hands and stacked under the tree by the roaring fireplace. Everyone and everything was as it should be, under this one roof. Everything happened here, in this place that he now lived. Alone and with no other.

He wondered to himself, on days like today especially, if there would ever be more than just him in this house again. His sisters and cousins had all moved on to start families in new homes on strange lands in other states and time zones. Most of his aunts and uncles had passed and the ones still around now wore the wrinkled masks he remembered his grandparents had. They were unable to leave their homes and now his parents were no longer just down the hall. Time had taken them all away.

This house, this land, these memories were facing down the barrel of oblivion once he was gone, and maybe he was just too old and too tired to change that. Would children of his own even be a possibility? There was a woman from his past he sometimes thought to call up, but he knew better than to try. Their relationship had ended long ago because of his apprehension with children, but he was younger then and time had taught him a great many things.

Most likely, he thought, she would have started a family of her own by this point. What would his call do besides unearth memories and breathe life into cruel fantasies of what could have been for two young lovers?

He watched the cows mill about in the fields. No doubt enjoying their last few days of freedom before they would be relegated to the warm confinement of the barn to wait out the rest of this late season. They huddled together, stabbing their tongues at the quickly freezing grass about them and savoring, one last time, the crisp taste of fresh feed.

Their hulking black masses against the grayish-tan backdrop reminded him of black and white-brown marbles in the dirt. But wait, what was this? A little marble rolled out from the group. A calf emerged from the center of the mass, jumping and moving as he should before the weight of age was destined to slow him down. He nudged at his mother and the large animal mooed while using her head to nudge him softly back with affection and simple understanding.

A baby born this late in the season? He couldn’t remember the last time something like that had happened. Usually, calves born at this time in the birthing season wouldn’t make it past their first day, but this little happy calf looked to be at least a week or so now. This little one defied all logic and common practice and yet there he was, planting his child-like hooves in the dirt and springing up into the sky.

The man smiled at the sight of it for a moment, then went back into the warmth of his home to make a phone call.