I sit on the porch steps with my coffee cup and welcome the first dawn of spring. The air is alive this morning; the staleness of winter is gone, there is breath and movement in it again. I can smell wet earth and pine needles and the horses in their stables. 

He wraps his long fingers around his coffee cup, warming them, and turns his face into the wind. He takes a long, deep breath, and I know he smells the pines and the earth and the horses, as I do. He takes a sip from his cup and smiles at his hands. I know exactly what he is going to say.

“Remember, Pa?”

It has become a ritual between just the two of us, one of which Hoss and Joe know nothing. Every year, in the pre-dawn of the first day of spring, we meet on the porch with our morning coffee, and we smell the air and we remember.

“I remember, son.”

I remember all of our spring times together on the long trek west. I remember the endless winters we spent cooped up in some rotting mountain shack or some wretched little prairie town. I remember the quiet, intense boy, who would eagerly sniff the wind for the first sign of spring. Then he would run to me, his eyes glowing with excitement, and tug at my sleeve and say, ‘Pa, the creek is flowing again,’ or ‘Pa, I heard a frog croak today,’ or ‘Pa, can you smell the buffalo?’ And I knew what he was really asking was ‘Pa, when are we packing up our wagon and leaving?’ My boy had grown up in motion, and movement was his only home. And then as now, springtime stirred the restlessness in his heart and called for him to move on. 

I know that Hoss and Joe have roots that run as deep into Ponderosa soil as those of the great pines. But not Adam. My eldest has always been a traveler, and always will be. And every year, his restlessness is growing.

“Going on a trip?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Long?” And I hold my breath against the fear in my heart.

"Ten days maybe. Thought I’d check the line shacks for winter damage.” 

I let my breath out slowly. Not this year, thank God. Not yet. “That’s fine, son. I’ll help you pack.”

We get his supplies ready and load them on the packhorse, and while we work side by side, we talk quietly of springtime on the prairies, of knee-deep mud and broken wagon wheels, of trying not to squash the tiny frogs that laid their eggs in the wagon ruts, of the eerie quivering sound of the snipe’s mating dance, high above our heads.

Then he is ready to go. He smiles and nods a good-bye and turns his back preparing to mount his horse. But I take him by the shoulders and gently turn him around and look him in the eyes. And then I pull him to my chest and wrap my arms around him. Because I know with crushing certainty that one day not too far in the future; next year maybe or the year after that, perhaps on a cool spring morning such as this one, he will ride out of the yard and never come back. 

He stands stiffly, enduring the embrace. When I release him, he cocks an eyebrow in mild reproach at his Old Man’s sentiment. “It’s only for ten days, Pa.”

“I know, Adam. Take care of yourself.”

He mounts his horse and tips his hat at me. “See you soon, Pa.” 

I stand and watch him ride down the trail and up the grassy slope until he disappears over the crest of the far ridge. Then I turn and slowly walk back towards the house. The first sun of spring is rising, and there is a chill in my heart.

By Lily