The tears in his eyes amplify their color. I’m doing my best to hide my excitement, but I’m quivering. Hope is a terrible thing. Hope is my mother waiting by the front door for months. Hope is a table full of banchan, side dishes, carefully prepared by hand. Hope is my sister curled in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder, asking, “Do you think he will come back?” But hope is also George, crawling on the floor, collecting pieces of glass so small they are nearly invisible.
