“Hope” is the thing with feathers

When despair lurks in the corners and weighs heavy in the air, I repeat Emily Dickinson’s opening line over and over. Just that line. On mornings like this morning.

I’ve talked about getting it inked onto my arm. I might have to do just that, keep it close to me always.

I don’t know what the next steps are–where to go or how I’ll get there, how we’ll get there. All I have is hope trying to hatch.

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