Fair Hope

She surveyed closely these edges, wandering slowly, eyes to the ground, searching, searching for clues… in the deep violet fringe of dark down, in the three-sided shard of uncolored glass… unsure of the story they told.  Captivated for a time by the clinging shell of the summer cicada (she wondered how it held so fast when clearly it had been long since vacated), she pulled herself from it to continue her search for something that held the true answer.  She simply refused to believe the answer that the empty casing, which she now held in her opened palm, held for her. No. Life had not evacuated this place.

Wandering now past his garden, her heart suddenly broke open for her son. Such a rich gift becoming a father had been for him; his own heart had grown so fast and furious, like that squash vine that reached all four corners, that it practically bulged in his chest. So in love with his young daughter was he. So filled with her joy and delight.

She’d cherished witnessing that opening in him.  It was as if his baby girl’s birth was the crack that revealed a previously concealed diamond mine.  Just this week, she’d marveled at the preciousness of his tears as he’d pondered the tragic news of a young mother who lost her young daughter to a senseless act of violence.

‘My God, how would you go on?’

The next day his own tragedy struck, as tragedies do, shockingly, unbearably, ripping a gaping hole of anguish in his tender heart.  Perhaps this was the cost of loving so much, a Love worth every angst-ridden sob. Now he stood at the edge of the abyss… that terrible, impenetrable darkness of unknowing….

It was this same edge she now walked, seeking clues.  Pursuing hope.  Oh, perhaps it was merely denial, this clinging to hope, but she wouldn’t let go. The irony was not lost on her that she should be the one now, picking up this hope in her hands, weaving its strands through the story, like the vine through his garden, fruiting, abundant. How was it that she’d become Hopeful? No head-in-the-sand Pollyanna hope was this. No out-landish belief either, but hope, fully grounded in Life, in all of its terror and beauty.

This morning she noted the name of this town on the sign.  Deeply she smiled, imagining those souls who’d decided to send down their roots into that particular patch and christened that desolate place, Fair Hope.  What must they have seen along the way to that place to have chosen such a name?

She laid aside the shattered shard, the empty shell, the grounded wing. Picked up hope, began weaving. Perhaps it might be a bridge for him to cross over, perhaps a rope to grab onto.  Her hands alone, holding these threads, here on the edge.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Carolyn
    Jul 30, 2012 @ 12:07:11

    I breathe deeply into the silence for you and him, Vicki. Love, Carolyn

    Like

    Reply

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