The Amount of Hope

 Everything hurt. The tips of the shoulders. The edges on the neck. The spine. The stomach. The shins. 

    The funny thing about pain was how it wearied the mind. How it took all the things in a day that may have been nothing, or simple, or wonderful, and contorted them to agony. Pain did little more than transform energy into exhaustion.

    Exhaustion, when taken in just the right dose, provokes weeping.

    And there, weeping, did the young woman sit. For the right dose of exhaustion that leads to weeping is taken in the amount of hopelessness.

    'There, there girl,' said an old woman.

    The girl gasped at the sudden aged appearance and tried to steady herself. But, alas, she was too tired. And so, she continued weeping.

    'Try something new, girl,' the old woman offered.

    The girl looked at her, tried to catch her breath, and when she caught it, she screamed.

    'A good choice. And now another one?' Again, the old woman.

    The girl caught her breath longer and then exhaled.

    'A traditional next step,' approved the old woman. 'And just one more choice?'

    The girl paused. She was wrung and worn and weary. But she settled into the silence. For just a moment, she breathed into the pain.

    'Ah, yes,' said the old woman. 'That will make all the difference.'

    It did, of course.

    The girl looked around. She grimaced, but did not fight. She bent, but did not break. She breathed again. And kept it going. The right dose of breath that stops weeping is taken in the amount of hope.

    The old woman, of course, disappeared then. They never stay long enough to see the end of the story.

    But there should always be an old woman around when one is weeping.

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