His childhood stories were legend, lore in the family’s mental archives. The summers he had spent in body casts and polio wards, isolated from sunshine and other un-broken children and the years that had imprinted a grown-up sadness on such a little boy, held a place in her psyche as well.

Chuck had an irrational hatred for the neighbors, despite knowing almost nothing about them. He was a sucker for a conspiracy theory and was sure that whenever anything went missing or when he couldn’t find a tool, etc. (which happened a lot -- Chuck was not very careful with his tools), that someone had taken it. He loved to blame others for his screw-ups.

My father’s ashes sit in a box in my garage,

I guess I’ve thought of hope as a positive, uplifting sort of thing. Like: “We can all hope for a better future,” or “All hope is not lost.” Well. Hope lies.