Wishing upon stars wasn’t something I did as a kid.
But it was something she did.
All the time.
Every night we were together—having sleepovers or hiding from our siblings outside—she would always look at the sky. And she would find a star, and she would make a wish.
Sometimes it was the first star. Sometimes it was the last. Sometimes she’d make up an excuse, right on the spot, as to why you could be allowed to wish upon that particular star.
Not that I minded. I didn’t wish, and I didn’t know the rules.
The ones she made up were just as good as the ones those other people made up.
Once she announced that she was going to wish, she would close her eyes.
Shut them real tight.
She’d mumble under her breath, things I could never hear. (I wasn’t allowed to know, that would break the wish.) And then, when she finished her wish, she’d open her eyes.
And she’d smile.
Starlight blinking in the backs of her eyes. Thousands of tiny suns, unable to refuse her their light.
“You know what I wished for?” she’d ask.
“No,” I’d say.
“Good. It’s a secret,” she’d tell me.
And I never pried. Never did ask what she was wishing for.
I kind of wish I had. Continue reading “Star Power”