Seems we’re either hanging on a moonbeam’s coattails
or wishing on stars.
— John Hiatt, Buffalo River Home
I’m one of the sappy ones, one of those people who blows dandelion fluff, sings in the rain, recites “Lines and Squares” as she walks in the street, talks to the moon, wishes on the first star.
Lately, I’ve been giving my (very specific and detailed ) star wishes to Mr. My Next President. Not that I don’t have faith that a majority of us can pull together and make this happen, but it can’t hurt to shore that up with my nightly wishes, can it?
Tonight I waited for the B11 bus with a young couple and their toddler son. The little boy called out when he saw a star and said the “star light, star bright” wish intro. I said it along with him, and his parents laughed. When we got to the end of the rhyme, he wished for it to be Saturday already because that’s when he’s going to a friend’s birthday party.
His dad laughed again and looked at me. “I’ll bet yours is more complicated,” he said.
Yeah, just a little. Wouldn’t I love to go back to the easy ones, though? Not because I’m suddenly wanting to be three years old again, but because it would mean all the big-bads were out of the picture, that I no longer needed to give my wishes over to the end of the war, to the creation of something resembling peace and normalcy in Darfur … to the health and safety of a man who has the nerve to be black and just two short weeks from maybe being elected president of this country.
I smiled at the dad as the bus pulled up. “Definitely more complicated,” I said.