Pretend we are dead children. Dead from the air. You should have spared your mother this grief. I hold something in my hand, and it is not a hatred. Look there, between my fingers, a bit of paper has been folded into a kite. When we are older you will remember playing this way and think that the kite was about hope, also dead. The kite was not hope. The kite was because I liked that shape and that color and how I could draw my nail across the edge to make a straight, sharp crease. If I folded the crease back and forth enough times, I would not need a knife.

So, I suppose yes. Hope.