I wanted to bring my daughter back home to Colorado with me. She wanted to come for a visit; a change of place, of space, might help her state of mind. Alas, she’s too sick to make the trip.
My bopping around the house, healthy, energetic…normal…I think my presence, my behavior, my living-a-normal-life is too much for my daughter. It’s bad enough that my daughter has to cope with constant nausea. My pathetic and repetitious attempt to seek out the illusory silver lining in the hurricane bearing down on her life is too much for her to stomach.
She can’t see the forest for the trees (whatever that means). She doesn’t see God opening any doors; just the windows closing. She shudders with every slam. Door after door after window after window; the claustrophobia of the prison that’s become her broken down body is best borne in isolation.
She won’t tell me flat out to leave but she’s not asking me to stay longer either. My mom-sense tells me she doesn’t want me around. I don’t take this personally. My heart understands; my head doesn’t. I can go home…for awhile. I can come back.
It’s not that change is difficult…it’s the positive that’s the hill-climb.
Me: Are you there?
Muse: I will wait for you. When you’re ready. I’m here.