An Intrusion

Waking up extremely late, reading for a while and turning over, I pull the layers of soft cotton and down about me and fall back asleep. If I am depressed it isn't like my depressions of the past... or it is an addition to the familiar state. My passion for textiles has returned and I am happy to sort and clean through the 20 years of sludge we have collected, but I cannot seem to find myself. Boxes are unpacked and their contents recycled and donated. Amongst the dust are threads of my past life, a child's crayon drawing, Girl Scout badges, random photos of family outings. What to do with these small tokens? To throw them out is as unthinkable as would be tossing away Porscha's and Cynthia's childhoods. The precious clutter is gathered into plastic containers and set aside. My past is found but the present and future are still unclear.
Germs of work ideas abound and materials have been ordered so that they can become real but I just can't get into the mechanics.
It’s three o'clock and Cynthia returns home. Good... This something I can do by rout. Homework? Practice. Dinner. "Yes, I can help with the play, with prom, give you a ride." but I know it is only a short time you will need me and I, already, feel the crushing emptiness your departure will leave. Already, I feel an intrusion into your world when I stop by the theatre to help out, when I knock on your door in the morning, when I laugh with you and your "sleep-over" friend. This is a shadow of the intrusive pain I feel when I talk to your sister and feel the distance between us. She is there I am nowhere. You are going there, I am going nowhere. Prayers for direction fall small and few from my lips as the belief they will be answered is packed in a small plastic box in the back of my closet.