The Purpose of Fire.

by Jason Nelson

I‘ve seen hope. Not in the eyes of children, or in some wacky over

used metaphor, rather I have seen an

actual, physical hope. It’s not a place filled with broad clean streets

and gas stations closed on sundays. There aren’t

pictures of hope in glossy magazines circulated through national

subscription services. Hope isn’t a mineral or animal,

a liquid or gaseous excretion. There’s a women, I can’t tell you where,

who makes hope. Her fingers don’t bleed

when she creates, like those who make inspiration. She reaches no

transcendental state, like the man who manufactures

tolerance and the occasional batch of hurried excitement. In fact, like

all facts, she, this women who builds hope, finds

her task boring and predictable. The exact process for making and the

chemical composition of hope aren’t exactly secrets,

as much as they are just uninteresting lines of words and awkwardly

connected syllables, easily forgotten. She dearly

wanted to be a veterinarian, working with cats and dogs and cats again.

But then dreams aren’t meant for hope, she so

often repeats while methodically assembling hope after hope after hope.