Snoopy in Green Light
The big Snoopy I got for Christmas, fluorescent green— a glow-in-the-dark secret under the hum of a new black light. Softness lived in his fur, a fabric that held more than threads— it held safety, a quiet hush of “you’re not alone.” That Snoopy smile, round as the moon yet steady as sunrise, looked straight at me, as if to say: hope wears ears and a grin. When the world pulled the plug on my joy, he glowed anyway. A reminder that light doesn’t ask permission— it just finds the dark and insists on shining. Snoopy was no stuffed toy, but a sentinel of laughter, a metaphor stitched in green: hope is soft, hope is smiling, hope is waiting in the corner to catch your eye and tell you— the dark is never the end.