Rowing alone in the dark, where the forest bares it alms in the dark-segregated but fixated -finding the light in the dark. Blindly knowing hope-
what privilege of hope is to conjure up a march, when your body can longer move,
what privilege to hope, to believe beyond a massacre, beyond home,
what privilege to make it home at night in the dark and find your body in place -where you last took off your shoes and slipped on your slippers.
what privilege of hope to use your grandmother’s prayer closet -when she herself is no longer of this world, but her hope, her prayers still pray for you beyond the grave
What privilege of hope to taste – mama’s cornbread pudding, in grandma’s green bean casserole on a Sunday
What privilege of hope for children to play alone in the dark,
make it back inside and watch the sunrise.
kindness sis. Krissy