Mermaid Mall Wishes

I remember being a child with my parents at a mall, tossing a coin into the fountain and wishing to become a mermaid. My wish was my secret. In secret, I saw my legs grow together into a silvery, green tale. I saw my body slide onto the floor. I would not be able to walk. I would not be able to breathe. I would need to be taken to water. I imagined my parents replacing me, a flailing mermaid, with my baby brother, in his stroller. The fountain would be the closest source of water. They would need to rush me, wheel me, through the crowds of sauntering shoppers. Or perhaps my father would carry me. They would let me go in the fountain. They would leave me to swim in circles and collect the coins of others' tossed wishes. My wish caused me great anxiety that I always kept to myself. And I always made this wish again, after it did not come true and I found myself at another mall, another fountain, tossing another coin. Again, I would fear not being able to walk, not being able to breathe. Be careful what you wish for, I presume, was the message that I was too young to fully grasp here. I was so young, young enough to wish. I am older now, and know that wishing, well, it's just ridiculous.

Blinded, I am, blindsided.

I didn't see it coming, but, here I am.

Something I wrote:

Pull a little too hard, what’s supposed to be a slow drag. Let the smoke scratch your throat and inflate your lungs and choke you a little, on its way out. Let it make you a little lightheaded and sooth your fiery nerves, aloe on a burn. Let the old man in the cute, newsie hat sit down at the table at which you are standing, but don’t let yourself notice until he asks you what you smoke. Look a little startled, because you didn’t know anyone else was there, and naturally reply “I don’t smoke.” Listen as he tells you that he quit smoking but his friend from another continent got him two cartons for twelve bucks. Your reply hits him suddenly, like a cloud of smoke, which he’s watching you blow into the clear air. “You don’t smoke?” You are caught, red-handed. Let yourself be caught, red-handed. Pause to look for an answer and realize, there is only the truth. “No. I’m having a rough time with the boyfriend.” He lights up and tells you, “Well I am a marriage counselor so maybe I can help.” You believe him because you are naive. He follows up, half-chuckling, “Not really, but I am...” Pause. He searches past you for an age. “...72, so I know a thing or two.” Then he’s serious. “Don’t let yourself take all the blame.” You feel the familiar lump in your throat. Listen as you tell him to enjoy his twelve dollar cartons. Walk away now, inhaling smoke and exhaling relief. You have your walls. But secretly take the stranger’s words to heart, and don’t take all the blame.