Dear Hope

Is it all right?

Dear Hope,

Is it all right for me to ask that you watch over every family meal for the rest of my life? It feels so unfair, now that your ashes and Lilah’s sit out of sight. I put them in my office closet when we moved in, but it stuck in my mind. My bookshelves here are smaller, but maybe it’s really that part of me doesn’t want the daily reminder of how your soul’s taken flight. But then I see the flock of birds you send soaring over the house in the Golden Hour light, and I know it’s more than alright.

Is it all right that I no longer think of you every day? Well, not directly, not in so much as words could really say. But just like in the old house, your kind eyes watch over us in every single way.

Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted a baby? You said that was over now, but you knew you had raised me. Now I sit in my new home, the ground fertile and ready. At the table Tanner grew up with, but you knew that already. Baby girl, even just knowing you existed makes my heart beat more steadily.

Every time I ask myself if I can really do this, I remember that you gave me what I need if only I’d notice. Deep down within me is the love you gave so freely, even when I know nothing else, I always know this.

Do you know you’re the star of a book that I wrote? A book people actually read and then ask me about? Maybe at first they see you as a symbol, a theme. But in the end, it becomes clear that you’re literally everything.

Someone once told me that golden hour was nothing more than low-angle sunlight casting a glow over the world. You taught me to believe in magic, see the portals on earth. The spaces between, the magical glow, I no longer even squint to see it, because of you, I just know.