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Moments of Suspended Hope

I live in a purple house, divided into a duplex, each side with its own red door. I have to hop over certain places in the hardwood floor so that my heels don’t get stuck between the slats. The only way that two people can function together in the kitchen is through practiced, synchronized butt-to-butt movement. The toilet and sink are so close that you don’t have to stand up to wash your hands and can even rest your head on the smooth edge of the sink during an early morning pee. My neighbor has purple tile in his kitchen, I have yellow, otherwise the sides are exactly the same. And today he bought a Porsche Boxster, convertible.

I’ve been home all day, working on my dissertation and watching him through the window. Ten minutes before the car arrived, he was pacing on our shared porch, bouncing a little each time he turned. He drove it for two hours and I could hear his music for long minutes before he arrived. He drove it on and off all day for hours at a time. When he wasn’t driving, he was either sitting on the porch staring at it or sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. It’s getting dark now and he’s sitting on the steps out front, badly sunburned, still staring.

He seems to be experiencing one of those great moments of suspended hope, a moment where he is somewhere between his real life and an imagined better life. A moment where he can see the trajectory of his life shifting, taking him to some unknown place that will somehow look and feel better.

My dad stared like that once. There was a rumor that his company’s stock was going to split, making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. That night when he got home from work he poured himself a glass of red wine, sat on the back patio, and stared into the hills for hours. As it got darker and darker outside, I made passes by the window and looked out at him, watching him sit in the dimming light, sipping wine and whispering a little to himself. A moment of suspended hope where, staring out into the distance, life looked different.

I spent a lot of my day today peeking out the window, watching my neighbor stare. There is something both wonderful and terrifying about witnessing such hope. I think there is an element of that suspended hope in this decision to write everyday. Sitting on my couch tonight, my dog at my side, I do hope that this writing will take me someplace different. That my life will transform in some small way. Tonight it seems possible.