Some wounds heal on their own. Others need to be blasted away.

Rod drove up to the house he'd shared with Sylvia for more than 20 years. The red spray paint was still visible from the day he'd asked her for a divorce. Saying she had not taken the news well could possibly be the world's biggest understatement. 

Instead of kicking and screaming or even crying, she went out the front door, without a word. The next thing Rod knew, she was scaling a ladder to the roof, where she proceeded to paint a line down the middle of the house, and then all the way down the driveway. When she had finished, she came back inside and very calmly asked, "Which half do you want?"  She was gone the next day.

Now he sat in the car, for the longest time, gazing at the home they had built together. It was now a 3,500 sq/ft mid-century reminder of the pain and anger of those last few years. And the bright red dividing line was like a scar from a wound that would never completely heal.

Without thinking twice, Rod got out of the car and headed for the garage. He grabbed the 21" chrome-plated spray wand of his Honda Black Max Power Washer and attached one of the 4 quick-connect nozzles. He cranked on the easy-start GCV160 Honda gas engine and pulled the trigger on the ergonomic handle. Two hours later, the dividing line was gone.

Rod stood out in the street and admired his handiwork. Not a trace of the red paint remained. But his feeling of accomplishment quickly faded. This house held a lot memories for him, some good, but mostly bad. And even though he had blasted away the scar, he knew that as long as he stayed, he would never truly be able to move on.

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