If all your hopes were condensed into one single symbol, what would it be? An object, a sound, a touch or a smell?
You bring that thing to mind, in times when you need it, and it gives you peace. You recognise it, saying “it’s going to be ok”.
My mother’s hands are that to me. They are strong, with almost leathery palms. They smell perpetually of bergamot oil in my memories. I can feel them pressing on my forehead, or my shoulders. I would recognise them out of a million other hands and I never realised that until I painted them.