leave it there.
She’s seventeen. The moments when she lets me leave my hand anywhere are fewer than they used to be.
“Who do you want to walk you out?” I asked. “Not who you’re supposed to want. Who.”
She thought about it longer than I expected.
Then she said, “Can Grandpa do it?”
My father is Duane Ostrem. He’s seventy-nine years old.
He milked Holsteins on the same quarter section east of town for fifty-one years. Twice a day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
He sold the
