Hope

Hope

I was asleep in the camp when I was suddenly awakened by a thunderous crash. I was in the middle of a storm and away from home. The crash had the suspicious ringing quality of our battery operated toaster. No breakfast in the morning, I surmised blearily.

I groaned and rolled over, settling on my makeshift pillow. No sooner than I had closed my eyes than came another crash that was undoubtedly our glass pitcher, accompanied by my mother’s banshee-like scream of rage. Since it shattered on what was probably a tree, (judging from the sudden mass fluttering of wings and irritated hoots of owls) I figured my father had escaped with his head.

I sat up in my tent and fervently wished to be home. At home, there would be Granny, with her soft hands and cinnamon smell. Granny, with her quick, ready smile and her face that exploded into a mass of jovial wrinkles when she laughed. Granny, whose youthful yet wise personality never failed to cheer me up. Granny, who could bake up a storm in minutes. Dear Granny, with her half-way cataract eyes that refused to give up on seeing the good in the world.

At home, there would be Papa. Papa, whose buttery soft interior lay beneath a gruff exterior. Papa, with his twinkling glass eye and his rough, gnarled hands that could soothe a million times better than my mother’s smooth, manicured, perfumed, hands. Papa, who always smelled strongly of mints. Papa, with his mahogany cane that he was so fond of tapping. Papa, who refused to believe that at fourteen, I was too old for a good knee-bouncing. Papa, who referred to Granny as his ‘old girl’ and me as his ‘princess’. Dear Papa, who wasn’t beyond bawling out his son and his wife when the occasion arose, as it was quickly arising now.

At home there would be a shining star, so bright and luminous that it overshadowed my parents’ incessant quarreling. She would be in her crib, gurgling sweet senselessness that I translated as the most profound wisdom. That procreation of my mother and father, a living testimony to the fact that evil can indeed beget good, would watch me with her soulfully old eyes that belied her baby softness, and soothe the turmoil within me. At home, there would be goodness, pure and simple, in its original form, essence. At home, there would be Hope.

Outside, the storm raged on. A string of profanities burst forth from my father, and my mother blasphemed him right back, including a few insults to Granny (whom I am sure would not have appreciated being likened to a female dog). Sometimes I really hated them for putting themselves and their children through this inexplicable hell. They were so wrapped up in themselves and their own problems, that they failed to see what they were doing to us all. I risked a quick peek outside. The light inside my parents’ tent suddenly erupted in a shower of flames, which someone quickly put out. I sighed, and closed the flap. That lantern had been pretty. I would miss it.

I reluctantly supposed that if I should hate someone though, it should not be my parents, but Dr. Mercury. Instead of getting divorced like normal people, my parents, not wanting to become a statistic, decided to consult a psychologist, the aforementioned Dr. Mercury. It was he who had suggested this fiasco of a camping trip, ‘to salvage the remains of our broken home’, but what he and everyone one else did not know, is that we were beyond salvaging. The good doctor had insisted that only members of the immediate family attend, so Granny and Papa were excluded. My littlest sister could not come, because she was so young, so the trip was without Hope.

I heard a noise outside my tent and guessed it was one of my parents, come to tearfully confess that they had murdered the other, but it was probably just Fate. I was right. My nine-year-old sister stepped into my tent, sniffing tearfully. I opened my arms and she walked into them. I cradled her head while she cried. I smoothed her hair back and kissed her flushed cheeks, offering what little comfort I could. When the storm abated, I asked,

“Do you want to go see them? I mean, try and talk to them?” She sniffed, and nodded.

Hand in hand, my sister and I made the short walk to our parents’ tent. The night was bitingly cold. The trees that surrounded the clearing loomed frighteningly in the darkness, casting shadows that jumped and cavorted and played havoc with the imagination. The air was crisp and sweet, and I was struck by the dark beauty of the place. I would probably be seeing a lot more beautiful places, since we had four more days to this trip. We stood in front of our parents’ tent, watching the shadows move within. Without warning, I moved inside.

For years to come, it would always strike me, the comical position in which we caught them. They were wrestling silently, one of my mother’s hands locked around his neck, squeezing frantically, the other around his wrist, and my father with a cleaver above his head, struggling to bring it down. Quickly, I shielded the little one’s eyes. It did not take long for them to notice us. When they did, they sprang apart. My father dropped the knife and coughed. My mother shifted uncomfortably, then said,

“Justice? Fate? Did we wake y’all? We’re sorry. We won’t fight anymore. Go back to bed.”

I blinked, sighed, and disappeared from view. I would not even try.

As I tucked my sister in, I laughed at the names our parents had given us. Justice certainly was not our fate. But do not worry, I told myself as I settled in. Even as the yelling, screaming, and crashing started anew, I smiled. For if all else failed, no matter what, at home, there was always Hope.