"Hope is a fat, obnoxious angel who barges in, sits down, and starts banging for a meal. God only knows where he’s been—his wings are filthy and sour smelling. He insults the cook, scares the children, manipulates conversation. People are tolerant because he’s not always like this, and he tends not to linger. When he returns, days or weeks later, he taps meekly at the back door. It’s open, he’s told. He steps inside and waits, avoiding eye contact. He’s told dinner will be served at six sharp. He knows where the clean towels are if he wants to wash up."
From a nicely-written essay entitled 'Approximate directions to a burial' in the The Walrus, by Dave Cameron