Write a Story About Hope

“Write a story about hope.” That’s my creative writing assignment. I have one week to put together a short story about something that’s been eluding me, slipping away little by little like the warm air from a fireplace escaping through an open window until the room is cold. 

I wish I had hope. I would love to have hope. To wake up each morning with a smile on my face and a pep in my step instead of heavy eyes and a sense of despair. How can I explain my lack of hope without coming off as melodramatic? I have no one to turn to, no one to guide me through this darkness.

I have watched my mother’s slow decline going from a vibrant woman who loved me unconditionally to an old, frail, frightened woman in a wheelchair. Her love for me has remained strong, but her body and mind have betrayed her along the journey. She continues to smile when I enter the room, her toothless grin is ear to ear filling me with joy and breaking my heart in simultaneous reactions. She knows my name but is unsure if I am her mother or daughter. I turn away so she doesn’t see the tears collect in the corners of my eyes.

Her husband walks by and strokes her cheek, tells her he loves her. I am amazed and honored to witness his love for her. As my cell phone has remained silent from calls and texts I feel alone, worried that no one has that level of love for me. Who is going to care for me in my final years? An island surrounded by water I will be adrift. My only option is to remain strong and healthy for as long as possible. I feel the weight of the world upon me, wondering if it would be easier to give up than to continue. To disappear into thin air, to evaporate, is that a possibility?

I think of my children, both recently married and very much in love as newlyweds should be. One daughter with a baby on the way. I am thrilled for them as they look forward to a lifetime of joy. Keeping my sorrows hidden I acknowledge it is not their responsibility to ensure my happiness. They come to visit with their stories and photos on their phones swiping through like silent movies that I watch but am not a part of. That’s life, that’s the way it’s supposed to be, I console myself. Children grow to become adults and have their own lives. It’s the dream, the success story. I smile and encourage them, still being the mother that I am, and when they leave I crawl into bed and turn off the lights feeling depleted and exhausted.

Again, I ponder this assignment. Write a story about hope. I hope to win a million dollars? I hope to become a princess? What do people hope for? The pot at the end of the rainbow? Is my professor looking for an upbeat, positive, feel good story? The other students seem to write so effortlessly, their stories read aloud during each class making mine seem amateurish, mediocre. Would my work improve with practice or is there a level of talent out of my reach?

Regret that I registered for this class attempts to creep in. A small case of buyer’s remorse combined with fear of commitment to see it through leaves me uncertain. Memories of the young girl writing short stories under the apple tree had prompted me to sign up. Those characters in the tattered notebook had kept me company as a child long before computers and iPhones stole away that attention. With the idealism of youth, I had typed up my stories, made copies and sent them off to magazines. They returned to me months later with generic letters of rejection which I knew were par for the course, and I refused to allow them to deter me from my dream of publishing someday. However, continuing to write over the next few years for my own enjoyment became less frequent as life got in the way. Seeing the ad for the class while scrolling aimlessly all these years later reignited that old spark and I registered immediately. Finally, a way to pursue my own interests and passions after putting myself on hold for years.

My thoughts return to my mother sitting in her wheelchair at the table. She hadn’t heard me come in, so I caught her in an unguarded moment, a peek into how she most likely spends much of her day. Sitting looking down expressionless in front of an untouched meal prepared by others. Just sitting. Looking down. No expression.

I am grateful to visit her, bringing a box of fancy cookies this time, a pretty blanket last time. I trim her nails and brush her hair, the mother-daughter roles reversed. Taking out the photo album I tell her stories about each picture in the worn out book. Remember our trip to Europe? That was so much fun, wasn’t it? I encourage her to remember the places in the snapshots, put names to the smiling faces looking back at us from thirty and forty years ago. I am older now than she was then. We were fortunate to have made those trips together to faraway lands.

“Mom, I have to write a story about hope. What should I write about?” I ask her in my mind for when I asked her out loud she just looked at me with those eyes that dared me to look away. Mom, please help me. 

I lay in the dark after dinner letting my mind wander. Not being able to draw inspiration from my own life, I would have to make something up entirely from scratch. It is a creative writing class after all, isn’t that the goal? Any plot evades me, nothing comes through free association. I just don’t have it in me.

I am in a fragile situation for a short period of time suspended between the generation above me and the generation below me. I won’t be this fortunate forever, I realize, as the smallest idea begins to form, the spark of hope is born in the darkness. 

For my mother I hope the joy outweighs the suffering.

For my children I hope for continuation down the path they are on.

For myself I hope for strength to care for all three generations.