The Last of the Wishers

Fall is coming.

Argue all you want about the date on the calendar and how summer is still summer until late September, but fall is coming. The tips of certain trees are tinged with oranges, yellows and reds. The grass has run its course this season, starting green, fading to brown with the drought, coming back full force when the rains drenched the area and now, the tones are brown once again. It’s a different brown than drought brown; brown and green and worn, showing that summer is drawing to an end.

The sun rises in a different place than it did this summer. It filters through the trees differently as well, casting longer shadows and more filtered tones than the bright, hot, white light of mid-summer. I took advantage of the light this morning and went on a brief walk with LittleBrother.

We were on a hunt for the Last of the Wishers.

Why are they the last ones, Mommy?

His hand cool in my warm one, we stepped quietly along in the dewy grass, watching for wishers.

“Fall is coming. Soon the wishers will be gone until next spring.”

We walked along quietly for a little bit, walking much longer than we did in the spring to find our beloved wishers, where every other foot involved shrieking, stopping, picking and wishing. The change of the seasons fell upon me as he began chattering again.

Are you sure there will be wishers next year?

“Wishers always come back. That’s the thing about wishers.”

He smiled up at me, hand still in mine, as I told him, as I assured him that wishers will always return to us after the cold, harsh winds of winter. What I didn’t tell him was that I can’t guarantee that he will always delight in seeing them, picking them, making the wishes of his heart on little white puffs. I can’t tell him with certainty that he’ll always pick one for me, for Daddy. Dandelions are a guarantee, of course, but childhood wonder ends. Childhood ends. I suppose that’s a guarantee as well. Dandelions and childhood ending.

Last of the Wishers

As my thumb stroked over the back of his hand, I was forced to wonder when the Season of Our Wishers will end. I have hope that I have another year or two before they are too busy, too involved, too big to make wishes, to pick their Mommy some flowers, to be seen walking with their parents in the neighborhood. I believe we still have time, that we are not quite in the autumn of our wisher season. We may be nearing the late summer, but surely there is still time; surely there is another season yet waiting for us to wish and dream and hope and believe.

We found two wishers growing on the side of the road. He wished… and acted like himself, a twinkle in his eye. I photographed… and prayed.

Last of the Wishers

Last of the Wishers

Mommy, I want BigBrother to get some of the last wishers too. Can we make sure he gets some wishers too?

I can only hope that the care and love he has for his brother will last a few more seasons as well, if not forever.

“Yes, Bubba. Soon.”

His hand slid back into mine as we walked back toward our home. Soon. All too soon. These seasons are flying by and I am left wanting to hold on to the last of the wishers. Forever.

Last of the Wishers

 

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3 Replies to “The Last of the Wishers”

  1. I love the juxtaposition of the text of your post- which was really poignant and beautiful- and the second photo of your son, with the two wishers in front of his eyes. There’s probably a really deep metaphor for how childhood is a wild mix of silliness and deeper stuff, but it’s just not happening for me today.

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