Hope

After every meal, Wilson runs to Scarlett’s bowl to see if (oh, hope of hopes) she’s possibly missed something.  Some tidbit or morsel or lingering taste to run his tongue across.  Scarlett’s a master of bowl cleanliness, but nevertheless, Wilson runs to her bowl.  Every time.  This seven month-old puppy is a 55 pound, smiling, fur-flying box of hope.

I’ve not felt well lately.  For the past several days I’ve been under the weather, sleeping more than I’m awake, dreaming I have large hands squeezing around my chest.  Waking to some watery thought that I’ll be better tomorrow.  The couch is beginning to take on the shape of my shoulders, my hips, my indecipherable misery.  I’ve tried self diagnosis, starting with the usual benign things.  No fever, don’t have the scoots, no sniffles, no headache.  No fluish achy-breaky shivering under a quilt.  Nothing.  Just this crushing fatigue that sends me back to the couch over and over throughout the day.  Oh, and my hair’s falling out.  And I’m not much interested in my favorite consumables.

I think there’s something amiss.

Then I look at Wilson.  Smiling, wagging Wilson, off to check out Scarlett’s breakfast bowl the moment she pulls her head from it.  And he reminds me that there’s grand hope boxed up in each of us.  Okay, so what if I’m off my feed for a few days.  These things happen.  What’s important is that there’s this huge spark of hope that once I’m up and running again, I’ll quickly finish my new and improved synopsis, package it up with the first 50 and a nice cover letter and send it all off to some really nice agents I recently met.  Then I’ll run to the mailbox every day like Wilson runs to Scarlett’s bowl.  There may not be anything there, but looking is half the fun.

Thanks Wilson.  Thanks for reminding me that even if there isn’t a morsel in the bowl, it’s still worth that flying run to see for myself.

Stay well, everyone.  Stay hopeful.


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