A bit over a week ago I chatted with a friend of mine who I was going to have dinner with the same night. We’re always having a lot of fun. The lady is as smart as a tree full of owls and I’m proud to have her as a friend. She’s a librarian and a teacher and occasionally I’m very happy she can give me some advice.
This afternoon we had following conversation, starting harmless, just as women talk sometimes:
(M=me – F=Friend)
M: “We still need to get ready.”
F: “I’m just in my work clothes.”
M: “Yeah, but you’re always chic.”
F: “Not today. Comfy. I’m wearing a moo moo. Just kidding!”
M: “In that case I’ll be overdressed.”
F: “Just wearing black pants and black shirt. I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
M: “Yes… my hope died.”
M: “Maybe my hope hanged itself. Oops… is it hung? Wait! I’m a writer, I can do this!”
F: “Hanged is for humans.”
M: “My hope committed suicide.”
F: “Hope is being personified. So hanged is correct.”
M: “Wow. I’m proud of myself.”
F: “You had a 50/50 shot.”
M: “I should take this conversation and blog about it.”
And here it is. Let’s say, a ‘makes-no-sense-at-all’ conversation and still I learned something. I admit, sometimes life is amazing. And I’m once again realizing how grateful I am to have friends who support my writing, even in small things like this.
Thank you, my dear friend. (Does that conversation sound familiar to you?)
As for my hope: It is very much alive. If this wasn’t the case, I would not exist anymore.