Bubblegum

Hope is bubblegum. You blow and you blow, until it’s a big round bubble in front of your face, and all of a sudden it pops. The gum residue sticking to ur mustache and beard — not peeling off, no matter how hard your fingers pinch and pull.

Hope is bubblegum. You can chew on it in your mouth and no one sees it. Only you feel it. Turning over and over, trying to suck all the flavor out of it — imagining what it could be. It can cost 50 cents, it can be for free. ABC gum, already been chewed, is free, but has not taste left.

Hope is bubblegum. You used to have it a lot more in your youth. Carefree days, biking around your town, chasing your brothers friends down the oak-lined streets of some norcal suburb. Stopping by the am/pm gas station to pick up an 85 ounce bucket of blue icee slurpee. Chewing on the past in your mind, you know it can only get better. Apply some steady pressure, and just keep blowing. A bubble will form.

And even if it does pop. Just chew again. Hope is bubblegum.