On the things that come out at midnight
...and she took that hope in her hands and poured it carefully into a smoked-glass jar. Not clear glass so the sun from the window didn't expose it, fade it like so many cut-paper flowers taped to the panes. Not an opaque bottle, because hope needed light to survive, like plants did. The hope sat in the jar with the lid on tight, light filtering through the brownish glass and making patterns on the white enamel sink. It couldn't escape. Sometimes as she passed the sink carrying laundry or washed the dishes after lunch she would touch the edge of the cloth sticking out from the lid. Red plaid with thin blue stripes, faded on the side that faced the sun. But she was careful to keep the jar there in the light and not allow it to slip. Lest the hope so carefully poured into it pool in a rain of shattered brown glass...