Our yard by the bay is a field of white
rocks. There must be one that is magical.
I crawl on all fours and explore a pale
miniature mountain range, searching for
a pebble a kid can wish on. I will
know it when I see it. Instead, I find
an ant hill. A worker crawls onto my
hand, scurries around my wrist. Shivering,
I sit criss-cross, examine dents in my
tanned knees, run my fingertips along the
blonde fuzz on my skinny legs. Soon, I know,
I will have to wash my feet, brush my teeth.
I squint at the setting sun. Dolefully,
a mourning dove, perched on a wire, coos:
Awoo — hoo — oo. I sing, too: hoo — oo — oo.
We speak as the sun sinks low behind the
pines, turning pink, knees and wings, bugs and stones.
I wait for my mother. A grown-up walks
his Collie and smiles at me. He must wish
to be a joyful girl who talks to doves,
I think. The screen door groans. My mother calls.
The yard is blue. Slyly, I swipe a rock
that’s sparkling near the door, swiftly slip
it into my pocket. I wish for stars.
