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Thursday, February 17, 2011

Hope, Not a Thing With Feathers

Hope arrives at your door in leggings and a short skirt. She used to wear a beanie showing off big eyes, but time change.  Behind her trails a smiling mother.  Hope carries a manila envelope, an expectant smile and a dull pencil.  She pulls out a long sheet of paper and hands it to you. Her eyebrows go up, and she puts forth the pencil.
“How much are they a box?”
She looks at her Mom who whispers, “Four dollars.”
She nods sincerely.

Girl Scout cookie season.

Since our neighborhood is full of small girls, I end up with four or five boxes of thin mints. One year I tried a couple of other kinds, but, really, what’s the point?  I’ve been scarfing down thin mints in the late winter ever since I was in college and some brilliant child made the rounds of the dorms. Then it was all about the cookies, but now it’s only half about the cookies. The other half, as far as I’m concerned, is fulfilling Hope, who in various guises, goes door to door in leggings and a short skirt.

(Dedicated to Anna, Meghan, Grace, Melanie, Ashley and all Brownies and Girls Scouts, past and present)

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