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“What about you?”
“I’m afraid of never having a family…of dying alone.”
“It seems we both fear the idea of death, huh?”
Her brown eyes gleamed with a bit of mirth. “You got a philosophical quote for that?”
“Hmm. ‘What worries you, masters you.’ John Locke. Which is why,” I explained, flipping through the bins some more. “I don’t speak about my fears very often. The more you feed them, the more they grow. Yeah, I have my fears and my worries, but I have more hope than that, too.”
She paused for a second and stared at me. Her eyes searched mine as if she were trying to decode something within me.
Just ask me, Red, and I’ll tell you my secrets.
Her body straightened as she stood taller with her comics pressed to her chest. “I know where I want to take you next for the place I think you’ll love.”
I arched an eyebrow and glanced down at my watch. “We’re inching closer to sunlight.”
“Well…” She walked around and held her free hand out toward me. “We better hurry.”
* * *
“Wish Alley?”I asked, raising an eyebrow as we stood at the end of a very well-lit alleyway.
People in costumes were standing around the alleyway, chatting, talking, and writing on Post-it Notes. The smoke from the sewer drains intermixed with the people’s cigarettes, creating a vibe that was unmatched. The laughter that filled the space was powerful, but then I’d look around and notice one or two individuals who were alone, who looked more somber, more heartbroken than the others surrounding them. They stared at the walls of Post-its before writing out their own and walking away.
“People come here to write down their wishes and stick them to the wall. I figured we could write down our hopes and leave them here to put them out into the world. You said you don’t like speaking of your fears, which I get, but speaking about your wishes…” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Is this lame? Feel free to tell me if this is lame.”
I laughed. “This is the opposite of lame. This is amazing.” I walked up to the wall and crossed my arms, reading some of the wishes that had been left against the bricks.
Some wishes were material things: expensive cars, expensive games, purses.
Others’ wishes were a bit deeper.
I wish for my ex to love me again.
I wish to get out of toxic relationships.
I wish for a home.
I wish for a cure for cancer.
I felt that one deep in my bones.
I looked over at Red, who was reading the words, too. I loved the way she took them in, holding her hands over her heart as if she were connecting personally to each word written upon the pieces of paper.
“Ready?” I asked her, walking over to the stack of unused Post-it Notes and grabbing a pad and a pen for us to use.
She took a deep breath, stepped away from the wall, and nodded. “Ready.”
“How many do we get to write?”
“Three seems like a magical number to me.”
Three wishes. If I had three wishes, how would I use them?
Number one: I wish my mother’s cancer would never come back.
Number two: I wish no kid would ever go hungry or be without shelter or love.
