Wish
It was enough to make her crazy—the constant yearning for something she could not name. She saw glimpses of it—in the smile of a new friend, in the tree limbs scraping the sky, in the lone crocus on her lawn—glimpses that just made her want it more.
The wind picked up, and the clouds crawled in. And when the rain began, she listened to its steady beat on the roof. She watched it cry down the windowpanes. She imagined herself on an old raft, a dog at her side, letting the water take her down the river of her street and out into some new adventure.
But the rain did its ordinary gray thing. So familiar, it might as well have been a replay of another rain, another time.
She knelt by the fireplace and stacked the wood just so. She lit a match and waited for the flames. She imagined herself at the stake, dying for some grand cause.
But the fire did its ordinary dance. It reminded her of something; still, she could not trace it back to a specific time or place.
Her memories became wishes, and her yearning cracked and popped up the chimney and out into the wallowing clouds.
Comments
Imagination is an adventure, after all—isn’t it? I wrote this piece on my birthday—it was very rainy, windy, gray day… I was thinking about birthday cakes, blowing out candles, and making wishes.
Jan 19 April 09
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I love the raft image, floating out the window. If only…
G
Guri 18 April 09