So… how about that?
People are worth it because, because… we keep going.
Hey.
Hey?
HELLO?
Nothing?
You wanted a story, and I told you mine. That’s the best I got, seriously.
I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s nothing else.
The ranch wasn’t a calling. You’re right to be upset that wasn’t the truth. I get it. I’m sorry. But everything I just said was real this time.
I did it for Mom.
I did it for the herd.
I sacrificed, and that’s something a lot of people would call noble. Something praiseworthy.
Why aren’t you responding? Isn’t that what you wanted?
Why are you leaving me hanging here?
I did all that for Mom.
I -
-
Seriously?
-
I don’t know how you know. But if you already know, I shouldn’t have to say it.
-
Right?
-
Right.
-
The truth of the matter is that I did it for Mom… even though she didn’t want it.
We had an offer, after that first calving season. There was a big, corporate operation east of the river that was looking to expand west.
Mom was ready to sell. It was even a decent offer. But I fought her on this, probably a lot like how Dad would have done.
I couldn’t say then why I had to keep going.
It was me. Are you still listening? The truth is it was me. I was the one that couldn’t walk away.
I don’t know how you knew. It took me damn near years before I figured it out.
Five years, to be precise.
That whole time, it had been two steps forward, one step back; every time we just about made good, something would happen.
And then I took the two-year-olds to market in the fall. I left the sales barn with an empty trailer and pulled into a fast food place. I was celebrating, kinda. With what we made from that sale, the ranch would be whole. Not out of the woods, mind you, but at least able to look folks in town in the eye again, if you know what I mean.
I got my order and went to the truck to eat it. I bit into the cheeseburger, and it hit me like lightning - I could say goodbye now.
When Dad died, I didn’t really cry. I told myself there wasn’t time for feeling sorry for myself. Being busy was more important than feeling bad. Right after the funeral, I rolled right into the bills mess, getting another job, then calving. I thought that losing the ranch would mean losing what was left of Dad, and I couldn’t let go.
I was sitting in Dad’s truck. His shades were still clipped to the visor. His presets were still on the radio. And, as bad as it may sound, you could still probably find his sunflower shells crunching in between the floor mats. I hadn’t changed a thing.
And now, the excuse I had for all this was as gone as he was.
It took forever, but I finally figured it out.
And I cried.
I so cried.
I’m sure anyone passing by probably got a pretty good show - this guy bawling his eyes out over his burger.
I’m shuddering, barely able to catch my breath.
I’ve never cried like that before or since. I ran out of napkins, you know?
But when I was finally done, the world was still there. Everything wasn’t right, not really. Nothing was ever going to go back to the way it was.
But everything was where it needed to be. And I understood that now.
-
So… yeah.
-
Hello?
-
That’s it? No more flickering? No shadows? Just the silent treatment?
I don’t know what that means.
I mean, I know what I hope it means. But I’ve been wrong enough already that I’m not going to stand here and make any assumptions.
Maybe all you wanted was the part I kept walking around. I don’t know how or if that helps humanity’s case, to be honest.
It’s not much of a defense.
It’s just what happened.
So.
If this is where you turn the lights out, I understand.
But if this is where you send me back, I really do need to check that chute. I know that probably seems small, considering, but there’s a cow back there, Anne, that doesn’t know she’s part of an argument.
She just needs somebody to be there.
Wait. There was a noise… like, how the gate chain -
Is that the barn?
No, no, hold on. Are we done? Did I-
Hello?