When you can’t remember what you’re supposed to hope for, or what you have for reasons in the past, remember a pocket-sized girl with two braids of straw. Walking ahead through the August field, to her it’s an ocean, and her arms the lifting sails that catch the wind.
Recall a bucket of water, heavy and sloshing in one hand, and a small palm tight in the other. And the absent-minded humming of three years old, a tune on repeat.
Or chickens on the run, tail feathers ruffled with indignation at a girl with a rake. In the end however, they run just the same, and we pen them in their fence, like memories, safe for as long as we care to close our eyes and keep them. And remember.