Wish

by Barbara O'Connor

My sister, Jackie, inherited Daddy’s inky black hair and I inherited his fiery red temper.

“You need a stable family environment,” she told me. But I knew what she really meant was, “You need a family that’s not all broken like yours is.”

I have a list of all the ways there are to make a wish, like seeing a white horse or blowing a dandelion. Looking at a clock at exactly 11:11 is on my list.

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.

But I knew better. I knew what it felt like to be a stray, not having a home where somebody wanted you. And he was a fighter. Like me. That dog and I had a lot in common. I was suddenly overwhelmed with love for that skinny dog.

Jackie’s friend Casey told me if you count to thirteen when you see a truck full of hay, you can make a wish. So, of course, that’s exactly what I did.

That was the rule for black-horse wishing. If you see a white horse, just make a wish. But for a black horse you have to shake your fist at it three times. I’d learned that one from Scrappy, which made me a little skeptical, but I did it anyway. Shook my fist and made my wish.

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

“If you blow on an eyelash, you get to make a wish.”

I wanted him to know he didn’t have to be a stray like me. I wanted him to be mine.

But I admit I felt a smile on my face and hope in my heart, ’cause maybe wishes really do come true. Maybe some wishes just take longer than others.