Hope is the moment you open the fridge door.
It’s turning into the next aisle in the supermarket when you’ve lost your Mum.
Your brother’s old bike you know he’s outgrown.
Hope is waiting for the pound you’ve dropped to land on the pier boardwalk.
It’s the red sky at night.
Hope is the front door shutting; hearing your dad’s voice downstairs.
Waking up and hearing the kettle boiling.
By Ross Young
This is beautiful, Ross.
I 🧡 the sense of fizzy anticipation and comforting warmth evoked by these different childhood memories of hope. 🤞🏾
I really liked this as it gave me several connections Ross. I grew up by the sea and spent a lot of time on Paignton Pier, which I am sure you know well too, so that thing about dropping a pound triggered some memories of playing down the arcs in Brixham and at the Pontins where my mum used to clean chalets on a Saturday. The thing about your dad’s voice reminded me of my dad coming home from his nightshifts at the hospital. I haven’t thought about these days for a long time.