Wishing

When I was a little girl, I used to catch the tops of dandelions, those puffy off-white-spiky- round-floaty-things. I would chase after them, my flip-flops making clapping noise, my feet racing and my laughter spilling from my throat. Once captured, I held it cupped in my palms, drew in my breath, made a wish and then released it back into the atmosphere, unharmed. I never wondered if anyone else found the same wish. But when my daughter was little, she too reached in the summer air for the tops of weeds, clutched them carefully and stowed the treasures in one of our cabinets. Now, the images of wishes are on greeting cards, wall art at Ikea, and on my lime-green sofa pillows. When I lay my middle-aged head on the soft fabric, I can smell the freshly cut grass under my toes. I see a smile playing on my daughter's face. I listen to the sound of noiseless prayers, lips moving in secret silence, expectant hearts waiting for answers. Hope, the ultimate wish.