Wish

by Barbara O'Connor

watching the sun sink behind the mountain and the lightning bugs twinkle off and on among the pine trees.

I was definitely going to have to go out on that porch tonight and wait for the first star to come out so I could make my wish again. Maybe two in one day would do the trick.

I watched Gus and Bertha sitting there gazing at the night sky, the corners of their mouths turned up into contented smiles.

If you cut off the pointed end of a slice of pie and save it for last, you can make a wish when you eat it.

Like me. That dog and I had a lot in common. I was suddenly overwhelmed with love for that skinny dog.

When I was done, the silence settled over us, still and soft, like a veil.

My feet felt like cinder blocks as I made my way across the yard toward the house.

But none of those could hold a candle to my troubles, weighing down that clothesline like a sack full of bricks.

A big, bright cardinal on the telephone line across the street. I closed my eyes, spit three times, and made my wish.

“So I came, too?” From somewhere down in the woods, a bullfrog croaked, sending an echo across the mountains. Below us, crickets chirped in the tangled weeds under the porch.

Outside, the rain had started, slow and soft at first and then faster and louder. The wind picked up and blew cool and damp through the screen.

Hearing a bird sing in the rain is on my list of things to make a wish on. So I closed my eyes and made my wish.

Thankful. I felt thankful that I had my very own dog who would love me no matter what.

“You can’t judge people for the mistakes they make. You judge them for how they fix those mistakes.”