The MC finds herself stuck in the middle of nowhere, a small isolated Northern New Mexican village called Cundiyo, where her husband moved the family and opens a gallery in Santa Fe. When her husband is home on his deathbed with cancer, he makes a devastating confession that he has been having a longtime affair with his gallery business partner, with whom he had a child. The family returns to Cundiyo after taking his body back east for burial to discover that the studio has been ransacked and robbed and the gallery willed to the mistress/business partner. With nothing but an old adobe house to her name, the MC takes a teaching position at the 'one room' school that serves the surrounding area in order to support her three kids. To cope with her feelings of having lived a lie, being abandoned, frightened and an outsider, she often retreats to the ruins of an ancient Anasazi pueblo on the hill above her home. Here she begins to have 'mystical' experiences where she sees an Indian woman going through the motions of her daily life in the pueblo. The woman is aware of her and at first says nothing, but with time, the MC sees the pueblo as it once was and the two women become each other's confidants.

I'm thinking about beginning the story, "Cundiyo", with this scene, first person POV:

Have you ever thought it would be better if your hope just died, once and for all, rather than constantly resurrecting itself on the faintest glowing ash of dying embers?
I used to, but that was when there were still embers. Even despair knows the power in hope.
Now there is nothing but cold gray soot in an earthenware jar.
This is what remains of the past fifteen years; the contents of this jar, the three children in the car, and a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere.
A little hope is better than nothing. That's one thing I know.

[This message has been edited by chalkdustfairy (edited September 01, 2010).]

I would consider omitting/rewriting the following in bold, both for sentence flow. The bracketed sentences seemed unessential and/or out of place to me:

Have you ever thought it would be better if your hope just died, once and for all, rather than constantly resurrecting itself on the faintest glowing ash of dying embers?

I used to, but that was when there were still embers. [Even despair knows the power in hope.]

Now there is nothing but cold gray soot in an earthenware jar.
This is what remains of the past fifteen years; the contents of this jar, the three children in the car, and a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere.

[A little hope is better than nothing. That's one thing I know.]

Your protagonist raises the question of giving up hope.
Why?
She/he has already concluded the answer is: "No."

Respectfully,
History