Fort Hope

I built a corral-style fort and dubbed it “Fort Hope” because various notions of hope meandered through my mind as I worked. Perhaps “worked” is the wrong word. “Played” is better. I sat inside the fort and thought about hope:

There is hope for me in people, books, dogs, rivers, trees, birds, and occasionally, music. There is hope for my country because I’ve read American history and know that Henry Kissinger once was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and George Wallace was Governor of Alabama. I have hope that people will give me a first or second chance. Some already have. Fresh hope has emerged from the most unlikeliest of places: dead unpublished writers, dead dogs, poetry, a poet, a boat refurbisher, tennis. People who are angry forestall any opportunity for hope. There is no hope for improved engagement on social media. I have hope that many people will soon abandon it, like many people abandoned pet rocks decades ago. I’ve never met someone named Hope. White breakers out to sea offer glimpses of antediluvian hope that something new will materialize from the ocean and show us the way.

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