There is an attic in my mind. The attic is where I keep my memories, fears, dreams. I keep them in clearly labeled boxes and each box has its place. Here are happy memories. There sad ones. And tucked into the darkest corner my embarrassing memories. There are my day dreams and here are my night dreams that never make any sense. This box here holds my fears. These boxes line the edges of my attic and fill the spaces under the eaves. But in the middle of the room is the biggest box of all. It sits under the light and seems to gleam. This is the box I look into the most. This box holds my hopes.

I open up the box and look at all my hopes. They are neatly placed in this box and you can see the ones I look at the most right on top. Some of these hopes look worn around the edges as if they are handled frequently. Some of my hopes are packed away at the bottom of the box. There is something vaguely juvenile about them, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away. Some of my hopes are silly looking and I pull them out to chuckle. Some hopes have been moved to different boxes; to happy memories, to sad memories.

I sit in my attic and look through my hopes. They are so very attractive to me. But the hope I think most lovely an old woman shrunk for me and put it on a chain. I wear this hope around my neck where I can look at it when I need it most. It looks very small, but it shines like the moon.

These hopes are lovely, but That Which Is beckons me. With a sigh I repack my hopes and close the box. As I switch off the light I reach a hand up and touch the hope around my neck. Then I turn and close the door behind me.