Book of Hours

Futility

Every night that I've been in my parents' house I've wandered from room to room looking for something to make right. There are plenty of things to do, certainly. Every room betrays a degree of neglect. And the ones my mother used to inhabit look more and more like ruins. For everything I see to fix, though, I also see a reason to leave it as it presently is. I can't ask my mother what she would permit and don't want to burden my father by disrupting what's left of his regular routine. So I just keep making lists of the tasks I would undertake if and when I muster the resolve to act.