The Ring of Hope

Auchallater, Braemar, 1962 — Early Afternoon. Catherine Smith rinsed the mixing bowl and set it upside down to dry, the kitchen still carrying the faint scent of cherry and peel. Outside, the hills lay quiet under a pale sky. She picked up another of the prize spoons, its surface dulled slightly from use, and held it to the light. It had been given for first place at the WRI, for a cake that had risen as it should, without haste. Hope, she thought, was much the same. It lived in beginnings — in creamed butter turning pale, in fruit folded carefully through batter, in the moment the oven door was closed. You set things in motion, then waited. When this spoon became a ring, the silver softened and curved, shaped to be carried rather than displayed. Now it caught the light only when she moved her hand. Hope did not shine on its own. It answered movement, and stayed.