The Epitome of Hope

The Epitome of Hope
29-03-18

She is still, silent stone;
A statue with eyes that follow your every move
As you bustle from countertop to fridge and back again.

Occasionally she speaks,
Alerting you to the fact that she is still there –
Still waiting for you –
As if you might have missed her
The last five times you nearly tripped over her Junoesque form.

Not moving from her position centre-pathway around the room,
She occasionally quivers.
Whether from excitement or fear or obsessive hopefulness I am not certain.

It does not matter what item you pick up,
She watches indiscriminately.
Her eyes follow your hand movements,
And her ears perk up at the rustle of a packet
Or the loud thock of a jar being opened…
Though you know she does not eat pickles,
She knows you are doing something with food –
And she wants.

She is still, silent stone;
A statue with eyes that follow your every move
As you bustle from countertop to fridge and back again.
Resistance fades as I look into her hopeful face,
And I find my resolve dissolving into her liquid eyes.
Pieces of sausage or ham or cheese become seemingly suicidal,
Leaping from the counter of their own accord
To land at her feet.
They don't stay there for long;
Her tongue darts out and scoops them into her tiny mouth,
Where they seemingly enter a vacuum –
She does not chew,
But they are gone in seconds never to return.

And still she looks at you
With those liquid eyes full of tangible hope;
As if you might have missed her
The last five times you nearly tripped over her Junoesque form.