“That's one ugly painting," the rancher said and then paused and looked me dead in the eye, "I'm sick of this snow." I set the painting back on my dash and gently nodded and then we both rolled on past each other -- he to feed cows, and I to eat chocolate chip cookies made by Coila’s mother-in-law.
Later that evening I received a phone call with devastating news of a tragedy that has befallen a friend. I was reminded of how cruel life can be. I’ve thought a lot this month about my friend. He’s a rancher too. I imagine that amidst his current pain he still has to feed cows each day. March held some bitterly cold days.
We have an event called Story Night at the gallery once every month. People get up and tell stories from their past -- the good, the bad, the highs and lows, the lessons learned. Sometimes a person who wasn’t planning to tell anything feels they ought to and works up the courage to share. They usually say, “I don’t know how this story ends.” But they always find it. These are my favorite stories. Sometimes the teller shares something so heartbreaking … there are no words to add.
I believe that certain wounds never completely heal, but I feel I’ve seen the sting of them subside when a person looks into the eyes of another and confesses, “I’m sick of this snow.”