At My Daughter’s Colorado Ranch Wedding, She Slipp…

And past all that—way past the vegetable garden, past the broken-down fence nobody bothered to fix anymore—was the ragged line of trees that marked where our land ended and the neighbor’s began. Tyler always stared at those trees.

“Where exactly does your property stop, Robert?” he’d ask, in that casual, I’m-just-curious tone he’d perfected. “The tree line,” I’d answer, rinsing my mug as if the question were about the weather. “See where that big aspen leans like it’s tired?

That’s the corner marker. Fence goes north from there, creek’s the boundary down south.”

He’d nod, like a student filing away an important fact. “Two hundred acres, right?”

“Two hundred fifteen.”

“Wow,” he’d say, every time.

“That’s… something else.”

The first time, it really did seem like nothing. A city boy impressed by open space—happened all the time. People came out from Denver, breathed in clean air like it was some kind of novelty, and asked how many acres, how many cows, how far to the nearest neighbor.

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