The Wish Catcher

Photo cred: "dandelion fluuf" by Silvermist (2011), from fotocommunity

Photo cred: “dandelion fluff” by Silvermist (2011), from fotocommunity

In a silent call to each other, the flowers turn as one to face the rising sun. It’s time.

No ticking of the clock or ringing of the bell is needed to alert the petals. Each, in perfect unison, flutter a greeting as they twist, leaves bowing down in respect.

Like thunder clouds storming in to devour the sun, a torrent of white- seemingly one being- appears, floating, moving closer with every breath but stagnant, motionless.

They near, and we see thousands and millions of fuzzy umbrellas.

The air clears; a man appears on the horizon, hat in one hand, twirling straw with the other over and over and over.

The Wish Catcher.

Somewhere else, far from the man with the hat in his hand and barrel of wishes by his feet, three children frolic away in a field.

The youngest, angelic in face and manner, still learning to walk, plucks a dandelion on a whim known only to her.

Her chubby, childish hands caress the top only to release the snowy fluff that fall like buttons off a sweater.

The oldest, wise in face and manner, still learning the ways of the worlds, senses the barrage of tears and plucks yet another dandelion and presents it to the youngest.

“If you blow on it while making a wish, the umbrellas will fly to the wish catcher on the island of blue and green.”

A hopeful glance. A smile. A tentative blow.

There is only one kind of weather here in the island of blue and green; wish season, where the wishes fall like snow to the ground, coating the grounds with the hopes and childish dreams of so many for the Wish Catcher.

Somewhere in those clouds, there’s the wish of a little girl. A girl, angelic in face and manner, whose wish, blown from hesitant lips, wanders unseen in the crowd of wishes just like it. She waits by a window- one smooth and unblemished, the mirror to her soul- looking out into the moon, wondering about her wish.

Many years later, that little girl, though not so little anymore, still angelic in face and manner, sits by a window, a different one this time- more faded and chipped that the one from her childhood. She still looks outside, though the moon is nowhere in sight. Instead, it is the lights of a dozen other girls who sit like her, behind broken windows that reflect their broken souls.

She still waits for that wish of her to come true. That wish, from a time of innocence and happiness, is the only star that’s continued to shine for her, even when all the others turned their backs on her and sided with the cold darkness that surrounds her.

They too still search for their wishes. Some can still see it in lying on the horizon, as if waiting for them with patience not known to man. But there are those whose worlds have become entombed in darkness, who see not even a flicker of light until it is time for the white to encompass them. Their windows, far from chipped or dirty, lay broken by their feet, the shards piercing them at every turn.

In the island of blue and green, there is no darkness. Even when the set sets, the silvery moonlight and celestial fireworks fill the night, illuminating the skies. No black may enter, no shadow may linger.

Yet every so often, a dandelion wish will crumble, and the silver-gray ashes will fly away into the wind, as lost and forgotten as their wishers were. Those ashes- like sparkling dust, there for a moment, then nowhere in sight- are noticed only by the man with the hat in his hand and barrel of wishes by his feet. For every wish that crumbles, a single tear slips down his weathered cheek, splashing onto the umbrella-covered fields, landing so gently, so softly, and disappearing so quickly, as if it were never there.

He is the Wish Catcher. With the hat in one hand, twirling straw in the other, over and over and over, and barrel of wishes by his feet. So many wishes, so many dreams, so many hopeful faces sitting, waiting by the window. So many little girls and boys, but so little time.


Day 18: Looking for Sunlight

Children in a brick factory in Nepal

Children in a brick factory in Nepal

The prompt for day 18 was to “write a poem that begins and ends with the same word”. Human trafficking and child labor are topics that I have taken a great interest in the past 4-5 years, doing lots of research and literally whichever school project I could. There is no sole cause for issues such as these, but ignorance is always one of the reason that delays the solution. These really are things that people should be aware of, even if you think it doesn’t affect you directly, because in the end, we are all human, and no one deserves to be treated, or mistreated, in the way those children (and sometimes adults, in the case of trafficking) are. Volunteer, donate, or, at the very least, be thankful for the life you have. Some great foundations to begin with are Free the Children, UNICEF, and Save the Children

Photo Cred: Nicolette Valdisteno for The Umbrella Foundation (another great one) which is a charity that rescues orphaned, trafficked, and vulnerable children in Nepal.

Looking for Sunlight

Sun shining down
on the childrens’ backs,
each bared to the sky,
as if to taunt the Gods
with the scars that marred
them, welts of red
up and down;
the remnant of another’s
crimes. Even in this light
are they surrounded
by darkness.

Strangers to each other,
yet friends all the same,
sharing a pain
no one else would understand.
caused by cruel minds
and ignorant glances,
which such young souls
can only hope
to survive.

Eyes, though broken,
haunted by images
too harsh for thier minds,
still look for the light
that may come in the day
that dawns with
the rising sun.