This is Pero, my neighbor. He is 83 years old, and a few days ago he sold his last cow. When the cow left, both he and his wife cried, and so did I. From the outside, it might seem like an overreaction. After all, it was only a cow.
But it wasn’t.
This morning, as I sat by the window with my coffee, I watched Pero standing at the gate. Looking at him, I found myself thinking not only about his life, but about the village I left behind so many years ago. When I left more than half a century ago, nearly every household here had livestock: cows, pigs, and chickens. One didn't buy butter or cheese; instead, people made their own.
The sounds of animals were part of daily life. The smell of freshly cut hay drifted through the village in summer. Fields were worked by hand. Gardens supplied most of what people ate. Families depended on the land, and the land depended on them.
It was not a hobby; it was life. As children, we hardly thought about it because it was simply the way things were. Then the world changed, slowly at first. People found jobs in towns and cities. Children moved away. Tractors replaced horses. Supermarkets replaced gardens. Life became easier in many ways, but it also became different.
Each year there were fewer animals. One family stopped keeping cows, and the rest followed, as they required a great deal of tending. The changes were so gradual that most of us barely noticed them until one day we did. Today, fewer than a handful of villagers still keep livestock. The sounds that once defined village life have become rare, and now Pero has sold his last cow, the end of a chapter. Not only for him, but in many ways for the village itself.
Perhaps that is why the story touched me so deeply. Over the past few months, I have been learning about change myself. A broken foot slowed me down in ways I never expected. For weeks, my world became smaller. I watched spring arrive from a window. I watched fruit trees bloom from a distance. I missed the tulips opening one by one.
At first, I resisted. Then I adapted, as humans do, and that is what I see in Pero as well. Life changes whether we are ready or not. The farmer who once cared for many animals learns to live without them. The traveler who spent her life moving learns to sit still. The village that once depended on livestock becomes something else. None of these changes are good or bad.
They simply are.
Still, there is something bittersweet about witnessing the end of a way of life. As I watched Pero standing quietly at the gate this morning, I realized he was not mourning a cow. He was saying goodbye to a lifetime.
And perhaps that is something all of us understand. The last cow, the last day at a job, the last child leaving home, the last walk before an injury, the last chapter before a new one begins.
Life moves forward.
But every now and then, it is worth taking a moment to honor what came before.