The Days in Pasture

Introduction:

I wrote The Day in the Pasture in December of 2022. I quietly watched my dad reflect on his own life. He thought about his youth, his father, and how much the world had changed before his eyes. In that moment, I saw not just a man, but a boy who once ran through open fields without a care… and a father now carrying the weight of generations.

This piece is a tribute to him.
To the quiet strength he’s shown.
To the love that went unsaid but never unfelt.
And to the way time shapes all of us — fathers, sons, daughters alike.

Now, as I witness the world changing before my own eyes, I feel more connected than ever to his story. This is our shared pasture — a memory, a longing, and a legacy that still runs wild in the tall grass.

Skelly-

The Day in the Pasture

Once just a boy with strength and youth, he filled his days with adventure and exploration. Careless bliss defined him, running through sun-filled pastures where tall blades of grass became his hidden playground. The world at his fingertips.

Little did he know how swiftly it would all unravel and change.

His strength was unmatched, and his ingrained skills- grappling, maneuverability, and brawn woven seamlessly. Each run transcended mere joy; it was a quest, a chase for the best where disappointment dared not linger in the shadow of second place. Ever in motion, a relentless force, he pushed boundaries, refusing stillness. The weight of the world’s expectation was an immense burden, yet in the grace of his natural prowess, perfection found its dwelling.

And then came the need for speed, his black unkempt curls and muscle cars, a rush, a distraction from the transformation that arrived faster than anticipated. A boy no more, now a man. Responsibilities and weight now sit on your shoulders… over time, the heaviness grew.

He circled his small town, full of unfamiliar faces, searching for the elusive feeling he once possessed. All but a phantom on main streets or bluffs overlooking the town, not on the football field or wrestling mat. It has but vanished for him. The pasture, left behind, never to be revisited. Her blades of grass are now abandoned, a relic from the past. All that remains are memories that echo his footsteps through its golden waves.

Now yearning for days that stretched into endless nights, bonfires with friends, stories retold, dirt road drives. The joy in routine, farm chores, and the pasture running forever without fatigue. A longing for the refreshment and freedom found in a single breath within her wide-open space.

He left it all behind, attempting to fill the void elsewhere. Always searching for something. A fleeting joy that never lasted. Children came, life was built, and goodbyes to childhood friends were said too often. Phone calls were made, and attempts were made to be okay. Yet, something remained amiss. A void sensed by those close, dismissed with a simple, “I’m fine.”

Escaping the past, creating a new life far away—plans made, dreams pursued. Yet, the truth lingers; the mask of being fine was worn. The yearning for the old man’s stories, rules, and routines. Early morning practices and buddies cruising Main Street. To reclaim the boundless liberty of the pastures, sprinting through the fields, unshackled from the weight of the world. To rediscover that freedom, embodying the essence of strength, youthful surrounded in the towering grass, a symphony of unrestrained movement. A dance that is missed and so desperately wants to be reclaimed!

Yet still… you claim to be fine, declaring those days irrelevant, but the truth persists. Old souls know old souls.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, a familiar refrain, and at that moment, our souls converge in silent understanding. I comprehend, for within me echoes the same refrain. Together, we paint a facade of fortitude for the external world to witness. A mask of sacrifice and love. One of longing and hope, but also of sorrow. We each have our own pasture in our minds.

Memories scattered like shards of glass and fallen snow, the past left behind. Don’t dwell on days of abundant choices. Close your eyes to the times when directions were freely chosen. Bodies didn’t ache then. “I’m fine,” spoken, seemingly inconsequential. Yet, deep down, the truth remains. Life is what it is now—one direction. We can only hope and pray for the next generation.

We can not go back. We are both too weary now, too many have passed away, and more will follow—torment in contemplating the inevitable goodbyes. An affliction to our hearts, knowing those days are gone forever, and we too shall pass away. So we read, we pray, and remember.

SK-

• 
  Table-Tossing Grace: My Season of Withdrawal and the Beauty of Eremition
  by fabricthatmademe
• 
  Filtering the Poison
  by fabricthatmademe
• 
  Confusion: The Chaos Strategist
  by fabricthatmademe
• 
  5 Bible Verses to Remember: Gratitude, Forgiveness, Worthiness, Grace, and Peace
  by fabricthatmademe
• 
  Fixing the Hinges on the Gate | by fabricthatmademe
  by fabricthatmademe

• About fabricthatmademe
• Connection Starts Here