The Chains of Hope

Hope, a quiet seven-year-old girl with a heart as delicate as her name, ventured out with her doting grandparents on a Saturday spring afternoon. Her shyness often kept her subdued, even more so lately. Her father had shared his concerns about her introverted nature. The school had reached out, alarmed by her difficulty in making friends and her silent demeanour in the classroom. “She’s a good girl, but we’re worried about her,” the teacher had said.

Hope’s grandparents cherished the time with their granddaughter. Maybe these outings would help alleviate some of the pressures she faced. Today, they took her to a toy shop, but she was content with just a box of crayons and a colouring book. They then treated her to ice cream at a quaint cafe, her favourite mint chocolate chip, hoping it would bring a smile to her impish face.

They strolled by the riverside, where Hope loved to feed the ducks and swans with pieces of bread. She enjoyed their company and the way they glided gracefully on the water. As they tossed crusts to the ever-hungry birds, a brightly painted barge named “Angel Flower” passed by. Hope waved at the people aboard, her eyes twinkling as she watched a little dog wag its tail on top of the boat. The conversation turned to the beautiful spring weather, the blooming daffodils, and the scent of new growth in the air.

Grandma and Grandpa took a moment to rest on a nearby bench, dedicated to Pat, who had adored this serene view, as indicated by a plaque on the slats. They gazed affectionately at their granddaughter who was now in the field, her feet gently kicking at the new grass, and her arms swaying in the breeze. A slight but subtle happiness seemed to radiate from her, a hint of a brighter spirit beginning to emerge.

With exchanged glances her grandparents shrugged, relieved to witness her moment of contentment. Hope eventually settled in the grass with her book and coloured pencils. Whilst Grandma prepared two cups from a flask of tea, they observed the lambs frolicking in the fields across the river and a heron standing so still at the water’s edge that they had to squint through their glasses to catch sight.

After finishing her tea, Grandma approached Hope with a carton of orange juice, curious to see her latest creation. To her surprise, Hope was weaving together a daisy chain, her little pink fingers gently threading the various length stems through each other with unwavering concentration.

“Who’s it for, my dear?” Grandma inquired.

Hope looked up with a hint of tenderness in her eyes and replied, “Mummy.”

A warm smile played on Grandma’s lips. “She’ll love that, my darling.”

Hope clutched the delicate daisy chain with care as they made their way towards the old church nearby. In silence, they entered the peaceful cemetery, and Hope, her steps soft and deliberate, found her mother’s headstone. There, she lovingly laid the daisy chain, a tribute to the mother she remembered in her heart as her Angel flower. 

Inktober 2023

31 Days – 31 Drawings – 31 Tales