There's something fanciful about wishes that's always appealed to you, even if the sheer impossibility of so many of them tug at your feet in a daunting, determined fashion. It's the undercurrent of reality. The evitable that you take so much stock in. And in the end, it's what has always lead to that bit of grounded practicality in every wish that is made. There's math and measurement. Thoughts becoming point and counterpoint in the busy world in your head. It's an entire saga of chose your own adventure, because there's another fact to be considered. That you've always known.
You like your wishes just a little bit more when they're granted. When they come true.
*****
Once, there's this weekend. There's a lot of 'once's' in your life now, and an awful lot of weekends too. But this one collides together with the rare weekend your folks decide to get away, to some sort of place or the other. You know where, of course. But it wasn't the where of your wish, and not worth considering in just this moment.
Aunt Ellen's taking care of you, even though you don't think you need takin' care of at all. And you're pretty sure that's where the trouble starts. Words like headstrong and overindulged and really, who let's there child run around and call themselves
that? No one here must have the sense left God intended them to have. She calls you Winifred just out've spite, and stares at the patched knee of your jeans as if it's the awfullest bug she's ever seen. And all you can think, as you look at that same patch, is you always liked the colors. How can two people be so different, especially where somewhere? You're supposed to be a little bit the same.
You're tucked in her car then, while she runs in the store for milk and eggs. You're not allowed to go in, that's for sure. For she's not managed to clean you up in any real way. So you're pressed up against the side door of the car, ignoring the whole of the cull seat that stretches all the way over till where she'll be sitting again. There's nothing to break the plane, nothing in between. The glass of the window is hot against your cheeks, and as you draw your knees up into your chest? As you try your best to ignore how different she is and this is and even the days are, all two of them in that lonely and crawling weekend. How stark and empty that car is, so different from Mama's bus, full of kids and laughter, gum and pencils and paper -- all victims of childhood distraction? Ellen's empty car, nothing there except from the cross swinging from the mirror.
Nothing else, except the else of you, the hollow, tinny sound of her turn signal echoing in your ears?
You wish you could be anywhere else.
Because
yes, you do wish it. But also because you know that it's gonna come true. They'll be home soon, and the rest of home will come with them.
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