There's a spot a few blocks from my house, right by the subway station, which looks out at the most gorgeous building in my neighborhood, old and crusted with detail and rented by all the big names for film shoots, and sits beside the Hope Hill, as I call it. The Hope Hill is planted with the daffodils Amsterdam sent after 9/11, and each spring they bloom among the ivy and trees. The canopy of leaves ahead blocks out the sun and forms a little cocoon from the outside world.
Waiting for my father, I sat down on the bench. For the first time since Janet's death, I took a deep breath and let the muscles in my stomach, in my shoulder, in my heart relax for a second. Science fair is over. I've done what I can for the math placement exam. Now it is time to breath in daffodil smell on Hope Hill.
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