It was a Friday, the 15th of February, when fifteen year old Hope trudged home through the blinding blizzard with the baby shrouded in the pink bundle. As she approached the street on which she resided, all nearby heads turned and voices hushed to a whisper as to better observe Hope as she scrambled down the street in a nervous, fidgety solitude that her perplexed neighbors later rumored to emanate from utter abashment. Did the baby belong to Hope? Did she intend on raising the child herself? How on earth would she, a single mother, provide for a child in this day and age? Howbeit, not one ventured to inquire the occasion nor the origin of this baby to Hope herself. With one arm supporting the weight of the baby and the other quivering from frost as it strained to open the icicle covered door, Hope shrank away from the cold and judgmental stares, and into the sanctuary of her home. Not a minute had passed before the baby released a cry of desperation. Hope, sharing the same perturbation, attempted to conceal the despair drawn on her face. Though her mother offered assistance, Hope had committed to this baby and despite her antipathy towards feigning certainty when self-confidence was plainly lacking, she decided to place faith in herself and her patience. Albeit this baby that caused so much stir within the community was all but a materialistic, mechanical, school project, it evoked the parallel feelings of hopelessness, shame, and anxiety that one would expect had she actually carried the baby. As it was, Hope survived the weekend without great trouble and managed to escape the gloom of the rumors of the townspeople.
Playing With Style: Hawthorne
March 14, 2017