Holy crap, I’ve lost my ability to write. I have half a dozen half-written blog posts and can’t find the words to finish any of them. Some are too perky, others too dark, some too personal and none of them give me that catharsis I’m used to feeling when I share what’s really on my mind.

Today sucked in so many ways, I’m convinced if I could just write about it I’d get some relief, but the words won’t come. So, after a couple of vain attempts at blogging, I traded my keyboard for a pair of work gloves and went in search of something to prune or dig up or clear out. I settled on the biggest eyesore in my backyard: the remnants of our rotting tree house.

It was the perfect project, considering today was the Kentucky Derby.

Derby Day was always a family holiday in our house. It marked the end of my husband’s busiest season at work – months when the boys and I rarely saw him more than to say hello or goodbye – and we’d spend the day catching up on the things we missed most: sleeping in, working in our backyard, grilling something for dinner, and collapsing on the couch to watch favorite TV shows or a new movie.

I thought about all of that as I deconstructed this mess, using every tool he left behind. Hammers, saws, a hoe-turned-crowbar. I broke drill bits and fingernails, cursed a blue streak and acquired more than my share of cuts and bruises, but I didn’t quit until it was all gone (even if “gone” just means all the pieces are now stacked under my deck until I can figure out how to dispose of them.)

And in my head, while I worked, I wondered how many more Derby days I’ll spend alone, cleaning up old messes instead of making new memories? Gah! I’m tired of making metaphors out of all this. I want to live literally, not figuratively.

That’s all I’ve got, but I’m hitting “publish.”