The Chest of Hope (Friday’s free for All)

IT’S JUST A SMALL BROWN wicker basket, not built to hold much –

and a bit tattered from over handling.
It’s beautiful warm browns have dulled and faded with age on the outside –

but inside the natural luster still shines.

It’s top is held in place by make-do leather ties because the first woody hasps were worn in two –

and now dangle loosely, without purpose.


What hands made the airy coffer? I wonder as I stroke the thin smooth fibers.
Was it one as handsome as the tight weaves frayed by time?


Though dust has long since claimed his finger prints – I know that he was a weaver; I imagine that he was a dream weaver…
Diligently intertwining each cane thread with my hopes in mind…


A place to store my breathing dreams so that they could be kept safe and close at hand, amassed in a beautiful fibrous reminder.
A quaint little chest of hope I will one day hand down to a child, a grandchild or perhaps even a great grandchild –
when I have used up its contents.


When I have taken the dusty lid off one last time and felt deep into the corners to make certain I haven’t left any ideas untouched…
I imagine when I offer it up to him (or her) they will look at me like I’m crazy (and I may well be) then they’ll tear the lid off, expecting to find a treasure of sorts before saying with disappointment,

“It’s just an empty old basket.”


It is then I will share with them the wishes and ideas that were stored and later born of that basket.

How they were kept safe till I could see them come to fruition.
And one more time I will imagine the handsome dark skinned man who meticulously weaved the wonderful piece…
a place to store my dreams because dreams need room to breathe.


Then I will show them how to place their own aspirations into the old auburn chest with caution to keep them safe, to nurture their hopes and give them time to mature. And if my last wish were to come true I will see them realize the birth of their visions.


*I adore woven baskets and this bit of prose was inspired by one of my favorites.

The Chest of Hope was taken from Getting me Back

They Always Come on Sunday (Alzheimers Awareness Month)

I always enjoyed Sundays, especially Sunday dinner. My grandmother was an excellent cook and she would rise early on the Sabbath to prepare a lavish meal fit for a wedding. As I recall it was after a delicious meal of chicken casserole, fresh cut green beans and scalloped potatoes that Edward Fry proposed to me. Edward’s father owned half of Cherokee county, the mill and the lumberyard. I remember Grandma was initially thrilled and credited her Italian Cream cake as the irresistible bait. My memory fails me as to why we argued later and she refused to give me the recipe. Whatever it was it didn’t hamper my love of Sundays.

Friends and family would stop by after church or after fishing all day, one seemed as restful as the other. They knew me and I knew everyone in the community.

That is not the case now. People visit but it’s not the same. I hardly know these visitors. I have seen a few of them before but I haven’t a clue to what their names are and I am a bit suspicious of their intentions. They are just faces, acquaintances, people I presumably know though I do not recall precisely how we met. A few of the faces gathering are not familiar at all.  They smile and let on like they know me personally; like we’ve shared more than a cordial conversation or a hot cup of coffee. I find their behavior to be crass and much too assuming. They try too hard; with all of their grinning and nodding and batting their bloodshot eyes at me. It’s a ploy to seem sincere.  They impose and pester me with niceties and the constant can I get you something as if this was the wake of a dead man and I was the widow.

Darrell (that’s what he calls himself) sits down beside me and pats me on the leg. When he’s not touching me he’s cooing and awing like I’m a goddamn baby. I try not to speak to him because it only encourages his vulgar behavior. He must be a hundred years old. The flesh beneath his eyes hangs in folds of blue and purple. One would think the puffiness would plump up those dark circles but it doesn’t. I stare at his hand when he lets it rest on my thigh. It looks like a gardening fork draped with crepe paper and it’s cold. He makes me nervous. I move my leg away from him but he insists on petting me. He reaches toward my face, not in a hurried way which is good. I am faster than him and watch his eyes tear up when I land the second slap against his loose jaw. “You nasty son of a-” Before I can hit him again one of the faces catches my wrist and yells “Mother!” Darrell assures her it’s okay but the woman holding my hand argues, “No, it is NOT okay.” I can tell she is upset as she firmly nestles my hand into my lap. I don’t know her very well but when I look into her eyes I feel it’s safe to trust her. Eyes are the mirror to the soul, I heard that somewhere once.

The sun is shining, casting a light midway across the quilted tulip bedspread. That is a sure indicator that it is past 10 AM. Usually when the rays peek over the headboard I am sitting upright with a cup of coffee half consumed and watching… what is the name of that morning show… Oh well, It doesn’t matter.

“Would you like your egg scrambled or poached?” he asks. I cannot see his face but I know the voice and my heart smiles.

“Scrambled please.” I purr, in my best seductive voice. I love Saturdays. Darrell lets me sleep in and serves me breakfast in bed. I know after the last bite of toast he will kiss the crumbs from my lips and we will make love. I unbutton my gown in anticipation.

“The kids will be coming for dinner.” he says, his voice coming closer. I sit up, smooth my hair and lick my lips. “Charlotte is home for Winter break, she will be coming too.”

“Who is Charlotte?”

“David’s daughter.” he replies. I can’t see his face yet but I sense the change in his tone, cracking slightly over the tinkling of cup against saucer.

“And who is David? Do I know him?”

“He’s your son Beth. Our son.” He says and softly sets the tray across my lap. How is it he has aged so bitterly?

“We have a son named David?… David? Oh yes I remember sweet little Davy. He made me a jewelry box last Christmas… a cigar box covered in dry pasta and painted gold. What did I do with that box? Davy is my baby.”

“He is not a baby anymore Beth.”

“I know that silly!” I tell him as I pick at the ugly lumps of yellow lying before me. “Liz, Liz is the baby now.” Liz, the woman with the eyes I can trust.

“Eat up. Liz and Ron are bringing your favorite dessert and you know you can’t have sweets on an empty stomach.”

“Liz is my daughter; she makes the best Italian Cream cake.” I’m not sure why I said that but it makes him happy.

“Yes sweetie, yes, yes, yes.” Pecking out kisses on my forehead like a starving rooster, he hoovers over the bed smiling. Amidst the rays of sunshine he looks like an angel, a weary angel. His once beautiful face is lined with worry and too many sleepless nights.

“They always come on Sunday.” More words from my mouth, their origin a mystery.

“Yes, yes they do.”

Some days the birds are the only things I understand. The context of their chirps doesn’t change much. Words, warping and twisting themselves into a rope, strangle me. English is a foreign language, a dialect that seems barely recognizable, one I must strain at to recall. Each sentence is a puzzle and I search to find the words that fit… their place, their meaning. Signs and gestures, imported expressions and faces that that fade with the sun – I suppose they are more amicable than the demons at sundown.

I know that one day I will awake and find me gone, forever lost in that void of timeless confusion surrounded by strangers I once loved. Each day is like the next, a never ending procession of things I cannot explain in a world I do not understand.  With one transitory exception, they always come on Sunday.

Dedicated on behalf of Alzheimer’s Awareness Month November 2012 by Janna Hill