The hotel is officially closed for the season. The Dude, Biscuit Mama, and their brood bid us farewell and headed for distant mountains south. I’ve located the various items that were left in their wake; a hair brush, pillow, diapers, soda pop. The floors are clean, the counters scrubbed and only a few leftover burgers remain in the refrigerator. Yet, there is a nagging voice that lingers inside my head.

A comment was made that I can’t shake. It was said in jest, but it slapped me in the chops like a ball-peen hammer. I’m still reeling from the blow and I can’t shake off the niggling feeling that while the comment was made in good, clean fun, that there is an underlying truth to it. It’s twisting in my gut and causing me to reflect deeply.

This explains why I am baking peanut butter cookies, of which I’ve eaten two and won’t eat anymore. Honest. I bake a mean cookie. I really do. Cooking and baking, as well as writing, are my forms of therapy. My family loves it when I turn introspective because it usually means something good will happen in the near future.

I suppose I’ll have to chew on this comment for a while longer until I can dig its grave and kick it into the pit before tossing dirt over it and jumping up and down upon it to pack it FIRMLY down. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how one little sentence can slowly draw blood from the wound it carved in your back? Nasty, festering, wound.

I haven’t been to the track in two days and am feeling a strong pull from it. I want to run. I want to feel the stress of the past week slide off me while I run lap after lap. I want to feel my heart pounding and hear my Ipod blaring. To feel the cool breeze of morning gently cooling my brow as I run and while I still can’t run, I can walk. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll walk off this hurt and anger.

Anyhow, here are a few pics from the BBQ we hosted for the herd on Friday night.