“Have you ever pulled a wishbone?”

“Have you ever pulled a wishbone?”

Mom held the pointed, inverted arch 

dried from Thanksgiving.

I told her yes, wrapping my finger around one side,

“You’re supposed to pull with your pinkies,”

I don’t quite know why.

The stars whispered our cue 

to reach for them, I closed my eyes,

remembering when the wishbone sat in the sun.

Its simple expectation to lay

bathing in the heat of noon

for days,

just for today.

We pulled.

I asked Mom if I could tell her my wish.

- h.f.