Wishes are Free

Grandma lived a charmed life. She seemed to have the luck of an angel. And the luck seemed to extend to those around her, they had but to ask.

It was hard to see her those last days. Her youth spent, her grey hair flashing silver upon her head, yet she still had a sparkle in her eye. She passed with a smile upon her thin lips, slowly into the darkness that overtakes us all in the end.

The package came a week later. A simple USPS priority box, weighty and full of mystery, the return address from a lawyer, but I knew who had sent it. I set it on the dresser in my bedroom where it greeted me with each sunrise and said good night as sleep took over. It sat there for a year before I had the gumption to open it. Sat like a reminder of what was gone, lost to the gods of the heavens above.

I missed my Grandma. Olive was her name. She was kind and compassionate and would give you her blanket on a cold night. She lived modestly, and all who knew her loved her. I spent many nights curled up beside her in front of the fire while she regaled me with stories of her youth, rope tree swings and pigtails flying. The box on my dresser was a reminder of those wonderful days.

It was mid summer by the time I opened the box. I was finally curious enough to take a look. The tape holding it closed had begun to yellow, the dust thick on the top. I felt strong enough to see what was inside, my grief at her passing finally spent.

As I held it, pulling at the tape, excitement took hold! What could she have left to me? I peered into the box with surprise. Inside I could see money, cold hard cash. I could not believe that it had sat unspent for those long months, hidden away. As I pulled out the bills, a black book spilled from the pile. A simple black book with the word WISHES engraved on the front and a pen hooked to the spine. I took a look inside, but the book was empty, uncluttered with even a single pen mark even though the cover looked well worn.

‟Grandma? What IS this?,” I wondered aloud to the empty room. I counted the dollars, they added up to $20,000. Was there something that I was supposed to do with the cash and notebook? I pictured myself on a tropical island, drawing and writing while laying on the beach. It’s a dream that I can afford to make real. She always said that life was for living. The inside panel had an inscription.

‟A wish for yourself may come with a price, a wish for others is free.”

Hmm. Cryptic, grandma.

It started innocently enough. A simple thought, a wish. I wished to lose 10 pounds. I even wrote it down in the book. The very next day I came down with a case of Covid-19 virus. I thought I had been following all the protocols, but it got me anyway. That last trip to the post office is about the right timeline. I was sick for weeks, unable to eat, sleeping 16-20 hours a day, the time blurred. Lo and behold I lost those 10 pounds! A wish for myself may come with a price. Sounds like an unheeded warning. Like something from a genie in Aladdin, one that keeps rattling about in my head in a deep, ominous voice. Or, a coincidence. That sounds more like it. Funny thing, when I opened the book to update my wish, it had disappeared.

My friend, Robyn, called me yesterday. She tried to sound casual, cavalier even, about the virus situation. Her voice began to crack from the strain of holding in her anguish. After some light prodding, I managed to find out that she has been out of work for 7 months now, out of money for 2. My heart is aching for her and her family, her desperation oozing from the telephone. I offer her some of the $20,000, to help her get by, my need for a vacation forgotten. Her pride is strong, her will determined, her refusal solid. Her family has offered to help, thankfully she has a few resources to draw from. She just needed a friendly ear, a sounding board so she can refocus on her life.

As I drift off to sleep, her voice still fresh on my mind, I spy the book. A wish for a friend is free. A thought floats through my head as my eyes close, ‟I wonder if the wish will disappear off the page when it is granted.”

I’ll try tomorrow.