They are a hopeful breed.
My grandfather quotes Pope’s ‘An Essay on Man’
As he tells me that “hope springs eternal”.
My mother points at a patch of crocus and bluebells in the Spring,
“A few months ago, this land was barren,
And now there is so much beauty.”
My father references his favourite Cohen song,
When he whispers to me, “There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”
My grandmother prays every night,
For the recovery of her brother.
She tells me that hope will conquer all.
My sister, a student of Dickinson,
Recites to me her words,
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul…and never stops at all.”
My auntie puts me on her lap,
And tells me that hope will get us through.
And when I tell them that I do not know,
If I can believe in hope,
They send me to the priest.
My priest sits with me.
He prays with me,
And reads to me from Jeremiah,
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, and whose hope is the Lord.”
Yet, I still do not know,
If I can believe in this thing,
That they call hope.