Clinging on to Hope
Sighs. A sense of defeat.
The world feels dark.
The metronome of conversation ticks on,
bright recessed lights piercing through the migraine.
A child bounces a dog’s ball on the daybed, unaware.
Thumping footsteps of an almost-eleven-year-old,
concerned with pimples,
not civility unraveling on a world stage.
A book titled Mom Jokes. Like Dad Jokes, Only Smarter.
Half-read.
Not funny. Not smart.
Two cushions rest against the window seat —
textured beige, silver, and grey.
Inanimate. Like me.
Resting. Holding space. Observing.
A car passes, perceptible only in moving headlights.
Paw prints on the wall.
Fingerprints on the bay window.
Moments frozen in time,
without a camera.
A jacket draped over an armchair,
a neck massager plugged in.
Ready. Willing. Waiting.
No customers.
A fatigued hand.
It’s six-forty. Dinner still needs to be made. But who wants to eat?
Tomorrow will come.
But will it be good?
Will it be civil?
Will kindness win?
