This isn’t the real ending.

It’s an ending that came to me just hours after I wrote the beginning, inspired by a rather lovely email, written by a rather lovely friend, and in a moment when wishes were far larger than realities. And even if it is only wishes it demanded to be written and the real ending has not yet done so, therefore here is the ending I have, false as it may be, it is the only one I’ve to share as of yet.

My, but you should have seen the day she came back.

Turns out Hope was resting, getting well and strong and learning tricks and strategies and war planning all in the comfort of the underground network that is the friends and family and loved ones who knew all along that she is needed and loved here, but had to be nurtured with them for a while.

They gave her what she couldn’t find here, but so needed to return. They welcomed her with open arms, frightened and fragile after altercations with the twins and she sat by their fires and warmed with homemade soups and cups of tea and they poured over books of how to win at the most crucial battles and they whispered in her ear the things the twins had never imagined but Hope had always known but might have forgotten after a solid kick from Dread caught her unsuspecting in her petite ear. She grew and she learned and she absorbed until she nearly blinded everyone with her brilliance like the thing that made her glow had suddenly discovered cold fusion only it was love and encouragement and deep seated faith, in me and in her neatly packaged from those who surrounded us even when we couldn’t see them like a band of merry men come to save the day when the king’s hooligans have us surrounded in a thick wood.

So she came back. And she didn’t sneak in and roust the twins in the night but she strode down the street in all her brilliance daring anyone to approach her, looking 10 times her actual size so bright and glaring and bold and full of, well, hope! The twins were blinded and rightly banished, stumbling off in an incoherent haze for apparently Hope’s new light could affect more than the eyes but also scramble the minds of the weak and angry and the twins somewhat resembled a drunken pair as they attempted to flee, tripping over each other and rocks and logs, some imagined and some real, but unable to control their limbs like somehow her brilliance had disabled the puppeteer and they were marionettes with missing strings and fumbling caretakers. She hardly paid them any mind, so confident in what she knew and what she told us just by grasping our faces with her two hands and looking into our eyes intently, but spent her time marching us to the shower and to hair cuts and by the time we emerged squeaky clean even behind the ears she’d righted the house and lit a fire, filled the cupboards and had hot cocoa waiting, the homemade stuff you burn your tongue just to sip it’s so good and there was banana bread in the oven, its tempting scent wafting through the place spreading goodness and peace and luring everyone to the kitchen awaiting the timer go off so we could eat it fresh and hot all gooey with melted butter.

Things have settled down, we’ve replaced the light bulbs, although who needs them with Hope all glowy and bright and shining us out (we have to cover her to sleep and there have been rumors of hiring her out for late night soccer games and other such nonsense) and mostly things are good and steady. But there are some things that won’t be fixed for we’ve tasted life with the twins and some tastes are lingering and unpleasant and take more than one brushing of the teeth to vanish, like the garlic bread with dinner last night that the ice cream dessert and oatmeal breakfast and two teeth brushings still haven’t vanquished.  There are places we’ve painted and painted and painted again and the marks the twins left on the walls just won’t fade or be covered so we ignore them most days and on the days we can’t ignore we just glare at them or shudder as we walk past. We know the twins aren’t far off and every once in a while when the marks on the wall look especially dark a cold breeze whooshes through the house and all the hairs on the back of our necks stand up and the goose bumps on our arms could be confused for molehills and we all look at each other in that knowing way and go running for Hope who hugs us and tells us that brighter days are here and coming but forgetting isn’t how things get brighter; they look brighter because we know what it means to be in the dark so it’s ok to remember and be horrified. We don’t want to go back but we must know back to know forward, she says, just as one must know dark to see light, which seems somewhat silly when we’re all wearing the strongest prescription sunglasses just to be in the same room with her but somehow she speaks with such knowledge and conviction and an undercurrent of such sadness that you know she speaks the truth even if she is all glowy and bright and shining to give the sun a run for its money.

And then I ran out of words. But the real ending is rather different, I think. It has yet to be written and it is far more complicated which should be no surprise to any of us, for while we may spin a tale of real life, even the tale demands that things be told mostly how they really occurred, and simple is never the occurrence of real life. I promise you this; when it happens, when it demands to be written, I won’t deny it the writing and I won’t deny you the sharing. I do have this to share of the real story thus far - I find myself most often wondering how she’ll return and not if, and that has to mean something that is less than dark even if not light, yes?