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.