Chasing Hope
I try to catch up—
to the woman climbing the hill ahead of me,
the same rise of pavement I swear remembers our footsteps.
She’s there most mornings—steady as a sunrise,
moving with a brisk, practiced stride that doesn’t waste breath.
Her outfit matches the season—
light layers when the air still holds onto night, a brighter shirt when the day turns bold,
good shoes, a cap pulled low, a water bottle that catches the sun like glass.
She’s sensibly dressed for the climb, for sweat, for weather that changes its mind.
And still—she carries a smile the whole way,
as if she knows something kind about the day before the day has proven it.
I want to meet her, not just follow her shape up the slope—
to fall into step beside her, where conversation feels easy and unforced.
But she rounds the bend the way certainty does—
one clean turn, and she’s gone, swallowed by trees and distance.
The neighbor’s dog barks as I pass—sharp and sudden—guarding the invisible border of “too late.”
I picture the talks we might have if I ever caught her—
politics, sure—spoken softly, as you do with strangers before they become neighbors,
current events that arrive on screens overnight and feel different in morning air,
the weather—humidity, wind, the first hint of rain—small forecasts we can test.
Maybe she’d tell me her name and laugh at how long it took me to ask.
Maybe I’d admit I’m still learning how to begin—how to step forward without an excuse.
Hope, I realize, looks a lot like someone who keeps walking even when no one is watching.
Maybe I should jog, let my breath turn ragged for a minute, just to close the gap.
Maybe I should get up earlier, when the streetlights are still on, and the world feels unfinished.
Maybe I’ll meet her tomorrow—at the start of the hill, before the bend decides for me.
