That’s been the name of my game lately, it seems.
My sister’s ordeal has been its own beast, and one that has not yet been fully tamed. She’s coping. I’m coping. We’re all coping. We are mining hope like it’s our job and so far it has either actually helped or made it seem that way.
But there is other uncertainty around. It swirls up from the bottom like creamer in my coffee, making things sweeter but triggering my constant suspicion that it’s not good for me. I savor it when I can get my mouth on it. I think about it a lot. I don’t know what it all amounts to but in my more self-indulgent moments I imagine myself getting used to it and the feeling washes over me and I’m left with a stupid grin on my face and some hazy, sun-speckled idea of what the near future could hold. I am full of pride and know better than to let myself get carried away with getting carried away. And yet. I am doe-eyed and hopeful and possibly naive and definitely making mixed CDs and constantly plotting and scheming (and not in the deceitful way) and hoping the day away. The scary part is that all of this could be in my head, even the real parts. If that makes sense. It doesn’t, I know.
I am putting myself out there, wincing. Bring it, Universe. I can handle you.