by Lynne Tillman

Hope lives in unexpected places. Hope is a home, but hope is
transient. Hope is to romance what God is to religion.
I don't believe in God.

In the morning I wake up and push away dread, which hovers at
the foot of my bed. Then I find myself face to face with hope.
(Without hopelessness there is no hope.)

Does hope have a face? It must have a human side-it's our invention.
Hope's face might be that of a fifty-five year old woman.
She walks her dog on Avenue A.
She is always alone.

I have been fascinated by her for years. She is a mysterious
and compelling presence. I wrote her into a story and felt a
guilty secret growing inside me like a sturdy weed, the kind that → Read more