“Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.”—Robert Ingersoll I can’t remember when I first felt hope, although I suspect it might have been an instinctive infant hope that my mother would pick me up, hold me, and feed me. According to what my father recounted, she often left me alone and unchanged in my crib for long periods, which may have been a prelude to the actual abandonments I experienced at ages three, five and eight—the last of which resulted in my being placed in a foster home until my father returned from the Second World War and rescued me. I remember saying to the people in whose home my brother and I had been placed, likely with doubtful hope, “My daddy’s coming home from the war and he’s coming to get me.” I never lived with my mother again.
A Perfect Brightness of Hope
A Perfect Brightness of Hope
A Perfect Brightness of Hope
“Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.”—Robert Ingersoll I can’t remember when I first felt hope, although I suspect it might have been an instinctive infant hope that my mother would pick me up, hold me, and feed me. According to what my father recounted, she often left me alone and unchanged in my crib for long periods, which may have been a prelude to the actual abandonments I experienced at ages three, five and eight—the last of which resulted in my being placed in a foster home until my father returned from the Second World War and rescued me. I remember saying to the people in whose home my brother and I had been placed, likely with doubtful hope, “My daddy’s coming home from the war and he’s coming to get me.” I never lived with my mother again.