Wish Upon A Star

Wish |wi sh |

verb [ intrans. ]

feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; want something that cannot or probably will not happen.

     Wishes are something we live with. They're all around us. We wish on stars. We wish on eyes-lashes, birthday candles, 11:11. We wish all the time, for things we don't have, things we may never have, things we so desperately hope for. But why? Why do we always want and want. Why are we thankful for what we have on one day, and the next, trample people for more. Because we're human? Well we could use the human card for just about any excuse under the sun. So what's the real reason? We're discontent. We just want more. We want what's next.

     When we're young, we want to be old. When we're old, we want to be young again. When we're single, we want a relationship, and then we spend our relationships fighting and arguing and wishing things could be simple again. We spend our car rides wishing we could hurry up and be there already. We spend our walks, jogs, runs, and bike rides wishing we could just be done already. We spend the time working a nice little job at at the local cafe wishing we could just start our careers. We spend school time wishing for graduation day. Then one day we're 87 and the kids we wished would hurry and grow up and get married and move out are in another state living their lives. We realize that we forgot to fight imaginary dragons when we were children, we forgot to enjoy the freedoms of summer and the learning of school days. We missed that little cafe when things were simple and there were days off. We didn't enjoy the days of wooing our spouse, and spending the simple days drinking tea by the fire. We didn't see the fields and the mountains through the car windows. Just the world passing by while wished we could skip it. We don't remember the valiant flowers growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. We can't recall what the air smelled like in that cul-de-sac where we lived. We try hard to remember the kid-isms our children said. But we can't. Life was a blur where we wished for more and forgot what we had. The next step, the next milestone, the next thing expected of our lives. We missed it. And now we are 87, with nothing to show but our certificates and trophies. Paper and plastic, and children, five states away.