The days turn slowly to black and white and then to their togetherness, gray. The photo is not a “black and white” photo, but it appears to be so. All color has been washed away by the snow and ice. The skeletons of the forest, once clad so gaily in frocks of green, now click their bony fingers back and forth in the wind. The cold grasps and rips at the land, and the wind shrieks in despair.
And how, how will we get through this? Where now is the warmth of the sun, the
kisses of soft, warm rains? Now that our
hearts are heavy and our shoulders are hunched against the severe cold and our
heads are bowed, how will we remember the liquid gold that runs through our
veins? Where is the alchemist now?
At this time, more than ever, we rely on hope. We cannot give up hope because it’s all that
we have, perhaps all that we have ever had.
When Pandora opened her jar and every evil rushed out into the world,
how was she to know? Fearing Zeus, she
quickly covered her jar, and there within was left the Spirit of Hope. It was all she had left, and it’s all we have
left.
I’ll take my brightly colored trinkets out of the attic and
adorn a tree. I’ll light it with candles
and sing happy songs to it and wait. I’m
still alive, and for all I know, that’s what hope is.
 |
| The jar is empty, except for hope. |
