H is for hope

One of Piper’s favourite places to sit is in front of the glass doors that lead from our sun room to our deck. It gives her a great view of the birds & chipmunks & squirrels at the feeder, the ducks on the shore, the pigeons and gulls and herons flying by, and, the deer that occasionally walk along the beach. Sometimes deer visit the deck, sometimes they help themselves to greens from the garden. 

We saw them the other morning, and I don’t think Piper left her spot the entire time I was at work. I’m sure she kept watch (in-between naps). They had come by once, they might come back again. 

I am not so different from my cat. Sometimes Doug makes a joke, or asks a question, or says something that sounds so like an ordinary sentence in response to the current discussion. For the rest of my visit I hang on to the hope that it wasn't a one-off. He appeared to be lucid once, that lucidly might come back again. 

I am not a mind-reader, though I’m getting better and better - I think, I hope - at deciphering clues in order to understand Doug’s non-verbal communication. I consider myself an expert at the art of the one-sided conversation. I award myself an Oscar several times a month for acting cheerful when I want to weep, strong and and capable when I feel inadequate and weak.

"I think of her every time I pull deadheads, a few when I walk by, and scatter them across the lawn.  And though I rarely visit aquariums, when I do, I find the moon jellies and watch them glide down through the water like a sky full of parachutists and think of death and regret.    

       And then I remember the hope.

       The beautiful moments of hope." (from my short story, Moon Jellies)

Apparently I have always believed in the power of hope. 

Onwards, with love.