Just call me Rembrandt

I recently spent the weekend out on my in-law’s farm.  And normally when that happens, I come home with some funny event or interesting farm fact.  However, this weekend, while I painted the huge cylindrical tanks where fuel is stored, a powerful epiphany struck me that had nothing to do with farm life.

Raised up off the ground by a metal framework, these metal gas tanks are protected from erosion from the minerals in the soil, but are still open to the elements from above.  Years of rain exposure had left splotches of rust marring the once perfectly white tanks.

As I brushed over those marks with a new coat of white paint, loving the way the blustery wind splattered me as well, I joked to myself, “What rust?  When I’m finished, these are going to look like band new.  Now if only it could be permanent.”  And that’s when it hit me, wouldn’t it be nice if we could do the same things with our life?

There are many instances, especially in my teenage years that I’m not particularly proud of.  Though I’m not the same person anymore, and have truly grown from the smart-mouthed meany I once was, those marks resurface every time someone from my past bumps into me.  It doesn’t matter how many coats of the “better me” I’ve added, all they can see is the splotches of my past underneath.

I don’t know what the answer is.  I can’t erase their memories since the MIB “Neuralizer” doesn’t exists.  And “sorry” loses it potency when it’s said a thousand times.  For me, I’ve chosen to move on and leave my past behind.  I’ll keep adding those coats of the “better me” and who knows, maybe one day the layers will be so thick it really will be permanent, no matter who I bump into.

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About janelleevans

I'm a sleep deprived mother of three. I create young adult novels from the voices in my head.
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