The four-hour drive between my apartment and my hometown was always tough, but this was the worst trip yet. I was returning from a memorial service for my friend Catherine who had passed away after a long, sad battle with addiction.
Her last few years had been troubled: hospital stays, accidents, periods of depression. But I’d never forget all the fun we’d had in our younger days. One of our pastimes was visiting art museums. We’d linger in the exhibits for hours. Paintings, photography, sculpture—we loved it all.
I could always count on Catherine to point out some detail I would have missed. She had a true artist’s eye. My tears blurred the road. Is she finally at peace? I wondered.
Up ahead, a clunky hay truck rambled on. I took the next side road to avoid following behind it.
As I turned, I noticed a sign: Sculpture Park. A few miles later, huge works of contemporary art came into view. I parked my car and walked the grounds. Sculptures and statues stood proudly on the rolling hills. Acres and acres of art surrounded me.
And to think I never would have found this hidden treasure had I not turned to avoid that hay truck! Everywhere I looked there was something exciting: colorful shapes burst from a stand of trees, bronze dancers, an artfully arranged tower made of earth and rocks.
Catherine would have loved this. When I reached a bench, I sat to rest my feet. I feel so peaceful here, I thought. I could almost hear Catherine say, Me too.
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