And I have to believe things will get better.  As I lay on Her sister’s bed watching the ceiling fan spin.  While Her hand twitches on my chest and Her leg kicks out over top of mine as she dreams dreams I’ll never know,  I have to believe there is hope for people like us.

I have to believe it.

Even earlier in the night, as I sit on the couch downstairs in the dark, while She argues with Her Mother upstairs and Her sister marches in and out with dozens of friends, carrying dresser drawers and night stands and posters.  As Her Chihuahua growls in its cage and the parrot squawks from the other room.  As Her former best friend, no longer best friend, barely casual acquaintance, walks by and pauses just long enough to see that she’d rather keep moving.  Rather not partake in Her life anymore.

I have to believe things will get better.

Even as we leave the house and pass Her sister and Her Mother’s boyfriend howling at each other over the bed of his pick-up truck and as that Man, who just found out his wife is having an affair, arrives in his battered sedan to spend the night.  Another body in the house.  

 

Even as we pull away in my car wondering where the hell people like us can go on Tuesday nights when home isn’t an option.

When home serves no solace.  Provides no comfort.  Is not home at all.

I have to believe.  I mean, I have to believe there is hope for people like us.

That’s all I got.  That’s all I have.

And I will not give it up.