My parents were a rare breed of opposites. My mother was a plain woman while my dad
usually stood out in a crowd. My mother
spoke softly and not very often while my father spoke fast and loud. She was
never someone who would be noticed whereas my father seemed to soak
up all the oxygen in the room with the attention he received. She was not affectionate and did not really
have any friends to speak of while he showed gentleness and kindness and loving
words. Needless to say, my mother did not really make a grand impression on my
life. That is not to say she was a bad mother. She was consistency but
consistent does not get rewarded. My
father stood out like a giraffe in a room of kittens. He often got accolades and rewards and people
tended to do what he asked because he asked.
When I got older I rebelled against the
consistency of my mother. I was loud and obnoxious. I wanted to be like my
father. In truth, I was always more like him.
I often was the first to smile and laugh or tell a joke and get noticed.
I was creative and imaginative. The less like my mother I became the deeper the
chasm between us deepened.
This deep emotional gorge between my mother and
I meant that we fought often when I was a teenager. My dad started out trying to be the
peacemaker but then he learned to just stay out of the way. The problem with
fighting with my mother is that while I ranted and raved, yelled and stomped, she stood silently with her arms crossed. She sometimes would shake her head but she almost
never said anything in response to my vocal declarations of independence. I
couldn’t understand it. Would nothing
make this woman feel and respond?
One morning as I was walking to school, of course in a snit as it did not help that I was never pleasant in
the morning, I slammed the door to the house.
I did not say good bye to my mother or anything. Instead, I stomped down
the sidewalk sullen and angry. I wanted
to play at a friend’s house after school but my mother decided I had to be home
to help her with my new baby sister and the chores I failed to finish over the
weekend. She informed me that if I had done my assigned tasks then I would have
been able to have my play date but since I did not I had to be a responsible
daughter and come home after school.
This did not go over well for me. I started out pleading and begging
that I would finish my tasks that night when I returned. This of course worked to
no avail. My pleading turned to anger
and with my arms crossed on my chest I stomped my way to school. When I had gotten only a few yards away from
the house my mother had come outside and was watching me. She yelled after me,
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” I turned my sullen face towards
her, lifted my foot high with my knee up to my chest and SLAM! Down went my
boot onto the crack of the sidewalk. I
proceeded to head to school with my head held high as if I had won a victory.
In the distance though I could hear my mother give a small laugh at my antics
which I chose to ignore thinking instead I had greatly affected her.
In my senior year of high school I was
determined to make my mother notice me and acknowledge me. One day I had the brilliant idea to yell so
hard, and continue yelling, until she responded. My plan, however, backfired on me. As I
started tiring of the sound of my own voice my mother saw a break in the battle
and walked away.
Watching my mother’s retreating back was like
adding logs to an already burning fire.
I was about to chase after her but stopped. I stood thinking of my mother and realized
that she did that frequently. As a kid my parents did not fight often but when they
did my dad was as I was. He would yell
and wave his arms around and appear like an overexcited monkey in a zoo. She would stand perfectly still not usually
responding and then when given the chance she would walk away. She would disappear for a couple hours to
return with a smile on her face and a look as if nothing untoward had ever
occurred.
I don’t remember the reason behind many of the
fights I would instigate but as I stood there watching my mother’s withdrawal I
came to remember her leaving the room and vanishing quite regularly. This fueled my
anger again and my determination. “She can’t do this to me. I am her daughter.”
I followed her and chased her to her room.
When I tried the doorknob though, it was locked. I was flummoxed by
that. My parents never locked their door. They usually had one of us four kids
running in at any moment and gave in to the lack of privacy in our house.
Privacy was sacred and unheard of while we were growing up.
After leaving home and striking it out on my own
I found a peace I did not have as a child.
I excelled at college with the independence and freedom. I stood out
with friends as fun and friendly and ready to party but still managed to finish
my degree with high honors. After college I continued to have minimal contact with my family.
I liked the person I had become and in the back of my head believed it
would be destroyed if I was near my mother.
I got a great job in Washington, DC working in a
public relations firm. It kept me busy
enough that I was able to easily give excuses for my absenteeism. It also provided me with a personal life that
I quite enjoyed. I got to attend fundraisers with the elite of the capitol. I
got to dress up and be entertained by many artists and politicians and
scientists. I even met the man I would
marry one day although he was not of the select group of rich and famous. Instead he worked as a caterer at one of the
events. I had gone up to him in a panic
over a shortage of hors d’oeuvres and he quietly calmed me down and then,
without anyone in attendance knowing, fixed the debacle. I was the one that asked him out as a thank
you for his assistance. On that first
date I was also the one that did most of the talking. He was quiet and steadfast. He listened and responded when necessary but
there was a gentleness and bashfulness that my own brashness responded to. In truth, and without my being aware, our dynamic was the same as my parents.
After only a few months of dating we moved in
together and then on our first anniversary we walked over to the courthouse and
made our union legal. I broke the news
to my family with a phone call. It was
the first time that I thought I had heard the hurt in my mother’s voice but I
dismissed it as impossible. This woman
had no way of expressing emotions so the chances of her feeling hurt were
brushed out of my mind. My parents asked
if they could throw a family dinner to celebrate our nuptials but I declined
citing work and a small honeymoon we were taking ourselves.
Life became quite routine then. I guess with age
comes the need to provide more order to a life. The antics and emotions of
youth are often replaced with maturity and routine. My family expanded as did the
definition of myself. I was no longer a
single individual I was in charge of two little ones who depended on me for
existence. We visited the family on the
holidays and got the obligatory calls on the birthdays but it was like living
in a world where there was us and then there was them. We were two countries where you were allowed
to visit but you could not stay.
After having my kids I thought more of my mother
and our differences. I realized I was no
longer angry with her but there was still a veil of incomprehension between us.
We kept our distance and maintained civility but as I watched my kids grow
I couldn’t help but wonder if I could ever know my mother, if I could ever
relate to her or learn from her. I
watched my friends and their families and did long for a relationship with her
where I could get advice when I needed on raising my kids or handling fights
with my spouse or even to vent about my career.
I tried not to think this way too often because I accepted for fact this
was not our relationship.
Life is about change though. Change often happens in ways that feels like
you are being ripped apart in order to be put back together again. I will never forget the time. I had just looked at the clock when the phone
rang. I was about to head out to pick up
the kids from their respective play dates and was about to let it go to
voicemail but seeing that I had five minutes I decided to answer it. It was probably a salesperson anyway.
5:06.
That was the time. Those numbers
flash in my head now with neon lights like an alarm clock in a dark room. I ran over to the phone and picked it up off
the cradle. “Hello.” I said in my best
rushed voice so that the person on the other end would know not to talk too
long with their sales pitch.
“Sweetheart?”
“Dad!
Hi." I said surprised. "You don’t usually call me. Mom usually calls. How are you?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay Dad.
Shoot.” I said lost in my own world still that I failed to notice
the heaviness to his voice . I remember running through the list of items I
still had to do for the day. “Pick up
the kids, go to the grocery store, make an appointment for the dog to get his
fur trimmed, pick up Bobby’s nasal prescription…”
I realized that Dad had been talking and I
wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry Dad I
didn’t hear you. I am a little rushed
right now and can’t focus. Maybe I can
call you tonight?”
“It is your mother. She has cancer.”
Cancer.
That one word stopped the clocks. It made my skin turn cold and my heart stop
beating. I felt as if the Earth came to a grinding stop. I couldn’t get air into my lungs. Everything
came to a halt. I could faintly make out
my father continuing to talk but it was like his words we being echoed into a
cave.
“She didn’t want me to tell you and worry you
but I think you should come visit honey.
Do this one thing for me at least.
Try to make peace with your mother.”
Later that evening my husband and I worked out
the schedules so that I could fly out to visit them. I felt like a robot going
through the motions. I did not want to stop and evaluate how I felt but I realized that I was angry with my mother all over again. Once more she is
leaving with no explanation and this time with no hope of resolution. I felt like a little kid again trying to get
her attention.
I flew home the next day. After we landed I sat in the bar of the
airport for hours. I couldn’t bring
myself to get into the rental car I had reserved and drive to their house. I
wanted to go in and scream at her and get her to pay attention again and this
time she would answer me. I finally gave
in to the inevitable and headed to my familial home.
As I pulled up I looked at
it, I felt like I was returning to a dream that you hadn't had in years, familiar with the scene but the view was cloudy and not quite as you recalled. Over the past few years the house had been
falling under a bit of disrepair. The
paint was starting to peel and one of the rain gutters looked like it was
holding on for dear life but about to let go.
I shook my head realizing that my Dad couldn’t keep up with the house
anymore either. What kind of scene was I about to walk into? Both parents frail and beyond repair much like the house?
It was still early evening but the sun was
beginning to set. I forgot how cool the
weather got in the evenings here in the autumn and started to give a little
shiver. I walked over to the door and
stood there. I did not feel like I could
just walk in anymore. This was not my
home and these people were almost strangers to me rather than parents. I lifted the knocker and rapped quickly
taking in a breath and wanting the initial welcomes over with.
The door opened and there stood my father. He had shrunk a few inches since the last
time I saw him. His usually neat hair
seemed unkempt and stood up in places.
He had one shirt corner untucked and thick wool socks on his feet, that
did not match. Without even a hello he
pulled me into a hug and I finally felt a sense of familiarity. My dad still smelled the same and his warm
bear-like hugs still gave me comfort.
After we parted he took my hand and led me down
the hallway, shuffling as he walked. As
a kid we all used to have to run to keep up with this big, bear of a man but
now I had to slow down so that he didn’t get too winded. My heart gave a pang of sadness over the
passage of time that no one can fight.
He led me to my old bedroom which seemed oddly similar and
preserved. “Thanks Dad. I am going to rest a bit before talking to
Mom. Where is she?”
“We had to convert the downstairs den into a
bedroom for her. She couldn’t take the stairs anymore. Don’t rest too long. We would love to have a big family dinner one
more time. All your brothers and sisters
are coming and their kids and spouses.
It will be fun.” As he said this
last part he gave a grunt. He was trying
to lift the suitcase onto the top of the small nightstand and could not seem to
lift it high enough.
“Dad give me that. I don’t need to really unpack anyway. I am
not staying long. Just a couple days at
the most. I have to get back.”
The obvious disappointment in his eyes made my
heart ache. He did not say anything but
nodded his head and shuffled out of the room saying, “Dinner with everyone is
at seven. It will be in the den of
course.” He softly closed the door shut
behind him and I stood in the middle of this small room that once felt bigger
in this strange house that once was home.
I was at a loss. I felt like
Dorothy only I was really from Oz and I was instead put into Kansas. I needed to get back to the Technicolor and
out of the black and white world of my past.
I tried to lie down and close my eyes but could
not get comfortable. I finally got up
and walked over to the bookcase and was pulling down old favorites and
smiling. I was still restless though and
we still had an hour before dinner. I
was not ready to see anyone but I couldn’t stay in this small room either. I started to feel claustrophobic and had to
get out and walk. I opened the door gingerly and peeked to make sure no one was
coming. I still was not ready for any
interaction with family. Not seeing
anyone I started to tip toe down the hallway.
When I got to the edge of the stairs I
remembered and looking down gave a smile. I
could still recollect each spot on the stairs that would creak. I tested myself again now and made it down
the stairs without a sound. Without thinking about
where I was heading I turned right down a little hallway and opened the door at
the end. This was always the favorite
room for everyone and yet here I was now standing and facing the sight of my
mother. “Oh sorry. I will come back.” I said seeing her awake and propped up on pillows a shell of her former self.
It was astonishing how fragile she seemed. Her eyes looked too big in her thin, hollowed
face. I was thrown back at the sight of
my mother. This was not the cold, plain,
distant woman of my past. This frail
woman with the soft, glowing eyes that still held a shine and sharpness to them
could not be her. I wanted to run as
fast as I could out of this room and back to my own home and started to back
away.
I saw a thin arm raise up and her hand motion me
to come over to her. I stopped backing
out but did not want to get any closer.
She finally said, “It is okay.
Come sit here. I want to give you
something. I have wanted to give it to
you for a very long time.”
My curiosity got the better of me and I walked
over. As I sat down I felt my mother’s hand on my own and again I gave a
shiver. The feel of her bones and the
coldness of her skin were not right. I wanted
to snatch my hand back but resisted the temptation. “Can you go and get this jar on the
shelf?”
I looked over to where she was pointing but did
not see anything. “What jar?”
“It is pushed toward the back. Bring it to me.” With each sentence she would have to take a
rasping breath.
I walked over and moving some books to the side
finally saw a small glass jar. It was
decorated with a ribbon around the edge of the lid and a bit of flowery fabric
which encircled the jar itself hiding its contents. I brought the jar over to her and sat back
down. “Open it.” She whispered.
I turned the lid and removed it peering inside
only to find that it was empty. I
turned it over as if to empty the contents and said, “there is nothing in it.”
Mother gave a small, weak smile and said, “Of
course it is. When you were a teenager I
think I filled it everyday but now days I only have to fill it rarely.” She tried to chuckle but it came out as a
gurgle and then she started coughing hard. I held onto her thin frame and
rubbed her back as she coughed like she used to do when we were little.
Once she was able to catch her breath again I
laid her back down. “I don’t understand.
What was it filled with when I was a teenager?”
“This is my hope jar.”
“Your hope jar?
Is that like a hope chest only with fewer expectations?” I asked trying
to make a joke but my laughter fell flat on my ears as I looked at the face of
my mother. She smiled at me though and I
could see a twinkle of enjoyment which surprised me. This woman never seemed to respond to me with
emotion or enjoyment. I was taken aback.
“My mother gave me this hope jar. Now I share it with you.”
“So I just pray and act like it holds my
hopes. That is a bit too esoteric even
for me mom.”
She again gave a small smile. She put her
fingers in my own and in a voice that seemed to have gathered a bit of strength
told me her secret.
“I was an awful kid growing up. I tormented your aunts and uncles. I was always in trouble. I was anxious and couldn’t sit still. I got into fights or cried a lot.” She stopped when she saw my incredulous
expression. She just nodded her head. “It is true.
One day in particular I was on a tear.
I did not stop and managed to break my mother’s favorite vase, yell at
my brother and sadly hide all my sister’s dolls from her.”
I started to laugh at the thought of my docile
mother doing any of what she was saying.
She continued on with her tale, “My mother took me out to the shed. I was petrified. I believed that she was going to whip me with
father’s belt or something. I imagined
the worst. When we got to the shed I saw
that she had set up a tea table. She asked me
to sit down and have tea with her. I was so surprised I think that I did it
without thinking. She poured the tea
like a grand lady. My mother always held
herself so straight and aristocratic and…well stiff. You have accused me of such which makes me
laugh because I am like my mother it seems.”
Mom sat in silence for a few moments and I could
tell she was replaying some bygone memories in her head. I waited patiently now, curious as to how
this story was going to play out. After a
brief spell she continued on, “Where was I? Oh yeah, tea. Well, I started to
squirm in my seat of course. I never
could sit still long around my mother.
She was always so stiff and quiet and it made me nervous. She put her hand on mine trying to soothe me
but it didn’t and I started whining that I wanted to go and play. She finally reached over and pulled this
glass jar into her lap.”
“I looked at it and dismissed it instantly. I was much less curious than she I believe
had hoped. But, she placed it in my
hand and told me that this was my Hope Jar. Well, I heard that and handed it
back saying no thank you. I figured it
was just one of her tricks to get me to behave.
She of course hands it back to me and firmly holds it to my hand. She stared me right in the face so intensely I
was too scared to backtalk her. She told
me that this is where I write down my hopes, or my fears and I put them in the
jar. Then I close the lid and leave them
there. I am not allowed to think of them
again. After a month I can open the jar, read them out loud to myself and then
bury the fears and hold onto the hopes.”
I stared at my mother thinking that she was
rambling and confused. This story sounded a bit
childish and not like her at all. I
looked at her skeptically. “Do you know
what I did with that jar that my mother held to my hand?”
I shook my head saying, “Noooo.” Drawing out the word.
“I threw it.”
At that she laughed out loud which produced another fit of coughing and
gasping for air worse than before. I was
about to jump up and get Dad when she shook her head and seemed to finally
regain some of her composure.
I let her lie quietly for a while as she
breathed, putting the oxygen mask to her face, taking big gulping breaths of
air. After what seemed like ten minutes
but was probably only about three she pulled the mask down and gave me a wink,
which again made me stare at my mother like she had just grown two heads. My mother didn’t wink, whistle or spit we use
to say. “Can you believe I threw that
jar?”
I patted her hand and shook my head no. “My mother was surprised also. I put a crack down one side of it but I didn’t
break it. See. You can still see the crack.” She remarked as she pointed it out.
I just again nodded without saying a word and
let her continue. “I thought like you
probably do right now and probably how you have most your life. I thought my mother was nuts. I wasn’t some little five year old anymore
that believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny.
So, believing in a hope jar was too far-fetched for my teenage brain and
I was not shy about telling her so either.
She picked up that jar and I could see how sad she was. She just told me though that she would hold
on to it until I was ready. I laughed
and probably gave her a smart remark like I don’t need no kid jar for my hopes
and fears. I was about to run off too
but something she said has always stayed with me.” The mother paused.
I was again engrossed in the story and as I waited
for the mother to continue I got impatient and said, “So, what did she say?”
“She said that sometimes we mix our fears in
with our hopes and that is ok. We need
to learn to bury our fears and let hope endure.
We need to always have an endurance of hope.”
I gave a snort and the mother nodded. “I know I felt the same. Do you know what happened though?”
“What?” I asked a bit sarcastically.
“Life. I lost your Uncle to the Vietnam
War. I grew up and had a family and kids
and had to put my own dreams on hold. My
daughter always looked at me with anger and pity and I knew she did not respect
me. Life happened. After I lost my brother I remembered that jar
and I pulled it out. I needed something
that brought comfort where I could divide out my hopes and my fears.”
She put up her hand seeing that I was about to argue
with her. “I know what you want to say.
When you were little I used the jar so that I wouldn't
respond to your anger and say something I regretted. Oh the times I wanted to yell back. Instead I would wait until I could break away
and then go and sit in my bedroom and write down all my fears for you. Then I would take and close them in the
jar. There were times I had to empty
that jar once a week versus once a month and it held more fears than
hopes. It always made me feel better
though.”
“That is where you used to go and what you used
to do?” I asked in amazement. “I thought you just couldn't stand talking to me.”
“No, no, no.” She shook her head. “You were a lot like me.” At that pronouncement I laughed. “You are impatient and emotional like
me. You may be outgoing and loud like
your father but you are like me also.”
She opened my hand and laid the jar in it. “Take this to at least have something of your
mom’s. One day you may want to fill it.”
I could see that she was getting very tired and
also that family was starting to arrive.
I could hear my loud brother and his loud laugh in the living room. I was uncomfortable with the woman in front of me. It was like listening and looking at a stranger. There was a familiarity and closeness she was showing now and I had a sudden urge to flee. Using an excuse, I said, “I am going to let you get some rest and
go greet the rest of the family.” She just
patted my hand and then closed her eyes.
As I head out the door and, without thinking, I set the jar back on the
bookcase.
True to my word, I stayed only two days visiting
with family before I made my escape. As I
flew home I sat and thought of the story mother told me dismissing it finally
as something told by a dying woman who was making a last stand. As we touched down on the tarmac I felt
myself relax. I was going to push aside all I felt and heard. It does not touch
my life now.
I retrieved my bags and went to go find my
family who were waiting for me. As I spotted them in the distance I saw my
husband’s face. It held fear and grief and like a knife to my heart I knew. I slowed
my steps trying to prolong the inevitable announcement. When I reached him he
just took my hand and gave me the news.
My mother had passed away in her sleep after I left that morning.
The next week was a blur of telephone calls and
flying back home again and moving among crowds of family and friends receiving
words that had no meaning but were meant to console. As the oldest I was looked on to take the
lead. I put myself into this task with the same determination I had with
everything. I told myself over and over that I would grieve after the
funeral. I would feel what I should when
it was quiet again.
Yet, weeks passed and this dark feeling of
numbness never left me. I walked around with it like it was a burden on my
back. I went through my days on automatic pilot. My husband tried to talk to me about
mother and my kids tried to offer sweet childish words of comfort but nothing
broke through the walls around my heart. I smiled when needed and nodded when
even a smile couldn’t be coaxed. At the
end of each day I lie in bed unable to sleep steering clear from thoughts of
mother and how little got resolved between us. I wondered if my kids would feel
the same way about me.
I will always remember. It was a Saturday. Both kids were taken to sports practices by
my husband who wanted me to take the day off and relax. All I did was sit in
front of the television though numbing my thoughts from thinking and
feeling. The doorbell echoed loudly
throughout the house interrupting my cloud of self-pity and I managed to get up
and shuffle my tired body to it.
I opened the door and looked out. I was surprised to see that no one was standing
there and was about to turn around and go back to my world of despondency when I
glanced down quickly seeing a small brown package sitting on the welcome
mat. Picking it up I noticed my father’s
handwriting on the address label. I
carried it inside and set it on the table placing the package in front of me.
I was afraid to open it and see what was inside.
I did not want anything that could be a reminder to the grief I carried around
with me like a badge of honor. I stared
at the package for twenty minutes.
Finally, I braced myself. I pulled
the package closer and ran my fingers along the edges loosening the tape. After removing the paper I slid open the lid
of the box and peered inside seeing mounds of tissue paper hiding the contents
within. I gently pushed back the crinkly white paper and stuck my hand
inside. I felt something cool and hard
and pulled it out of the box.
There sitting on the tabletop now was the Hope
Jar. The jar that mother used to put her
fears and her hopes and then divide them out, burying the fears and holding
onto the hopes. I was not ready to hold
onto this memento she had so desperately tried to give me before she died. I went to return it to the box when I saw
that under the tissue paper were hundreds of folded scrap sheets of paper. I pulled one out and read it. “I hope that
one day my daughter will see how much I love her.” I gasped and threw it down pulling out
another one. “I hope one day I will be a
famous writer.”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. She had kept each and every one of her hopes
and now they sat here in a box in front of me.
I sat for hours unfolding each sheet of paper and reading each item
written on it. “I hope I will find a
husband that loves me forever.” “I hope that my kids grow up to be happy
adults.” Even the very personal ones, “I hope that my husband is not having an
affair with the new blond secretary in his office.” “I hope I have enough
strength to not yell back at my daughter in anger.” “I hope that my daughter
will love me again one day.”
When I was done the table was covered in
hundreds of small sheets of paper. I felt
something inside of me give like a dam being released and I started to
cry. I cried with complete abandon for
everything. I realized that those sheets of paper gave me what I was seeking. Here was a story and an
insight about my mother that I never was able to get in life and I cried for
her and for us. After the long cry I felt myself settle down again only without
the numbness and desperation. I started feeling a bit of my own will
return. I got up and found a scrap piece
of paper beside the telephone we used to take messages and I sat back
down. I wrote my own hope onto the sheet
of paper and folded it up.
I reached over and pulled the Hope Jar closer to
me and unscrewed the lid. I went to drop
the note inside the jar but noticed a sheet of folded paper blocked everything. I pulled it out and was again surprised at
the gift my mother had truly left me. She
wrote a note on the top which was difficult to read. She had grown so frail and her hands shook
but she managed to get the note written to her by her own pen.
“My Daughter.
The Hope Jar is more than childish wishes. It is more than complaints
and requests. This jar reminds us that
hope endures beyond our fears. We must let go of the fears and hold onto the hopes. One day you will see this. Your loving mother to
the end.”
I laid the paper in front of me and read the
words my mother had written so many years ago:
Hope doesn’t come in a bottle
It won’t visit you in your sleep
Hope won’t grow in a fallow field
Or thrive in an empty heart
Hope doesn’t come gift wrapped with a pretty bow
It won’t sneak up behind you and scream surprise
Hope does not smile and crack wise
Or ridicule with words that cut like a knife
Hope is not an orator or the audience
It doesn’t drive away with a strong wind
Hope is not a passenger
Nor the driver
Hope is not our enemies
It is not our fair weather friends
Hope doesn’t sit take a nap under a tree
Or lie in our stares
Hope has no meaning
Among the anger and fear
Hope is not at the end of a gun
Killing the souls that lie within
Hope is not in the mirror
Of the wasted and lost
Hope is not hungry or thirsty
It doesn’t want or ask
Hope is not left useless
On a weekend away
Hope is not a sign
That says detour ahead
Hope is not rich nor poor
It doesn’t discriminate against our need
Hope does not want
Or give to the futile
Hope is not lust
Or wanton desire
Hope is not hate or anger
It is not inside your fist
Hope is not a title
Nor is it the word
Hope is a story
We breathe into our memory
Hope lies in our prayers
It sits and listens at our feet
Hope waits in a quiet room
Until its name is called
Hope blows in the breeze
Like a boomerang that always returns
Hope is a song
Sung with tears
Hope is a book and a picture
Hope is a teacher
Hope is a confidant and friend
Hope does not sit on a shelf
Bottled and forgotten
Hope runs through the veins
Hope beats with the heart
Hope knows our dreams
From within
It does not leave a calling card
It has not moved to the next town
There is no obituary
Or funeral procession
Hope stands tall
Hope stand firm
Against the enemy of self-doubt
Against the malice of indifference
Hope is pure
Hope is love and
Hope endures…
After
finishing those words I sat back in my chair. Gone was the grief and
self-pity. Gone was the anger and doubt.
I got the answers I wanted and much more. I looked at my scrap piece of paper
that I wrote my own hope on. Finally, I closed my eyes and smiled. I folded the
paper and slid it into the jar and whispered, “Because hope endures."
