Abundance
November 26th, 2007
Family, Mothering
“Where’s the wishbone?” Andrew asked Thursday afternoon, as I carved leftover turkey off the carcass.
I pointed to the front of the breastbone. “Right here. But it’’s hard to see because it’s covered with tendons.” (Not a pleasant thought, that I had my hands on a turkey’s innards. Come to think of it, I had just eaten turkey muscle, and that’s not exactly picturesque either . . .)
“Cool!” Andrew said. ”Can I break it with you?”
I sighed. “Honey, I don’t know. I’m not sure I can even pull the thing off without breaking it myself. And there’s only one of them, and six of you guys. The other kids might be upset.”
Andrew’s eyes glinted. “We don’t have to tell them.”
I laughed. “Well, let me see if I can get it loose. Then we’ll have to let it dry for awhile.”
He grinned, then scampered off to the family room, where his bone-breaking rivals were busy doing heaven-knows-what. I dug my fingers around the edges of the wishbone, following its delicate curve up one side of the breastbone and down the other, prying it loose from the tissue binding it to the carcass. Once it was free, I scraped as much of the gook off as I could, rinsed it, and put it on the windowsill to dry. Behind the box of Kleenex.
That night I had a dream. I was reaching for the dry wishbone, glad to share a secret moment with Andrew, yet also wistful that including him would exclude the other kids. I glanced down and spotted something strange poking out of the ground, which was inexplicably made of sand: the slim, rough tip of another wishbone.
Excited, I bent down to pull it out of the sand. Now two more kids can have a turn. As my fingertips brushed the grainy floor I uncovered another wishbone. Beside it was the tip of another, and a few inches away, yet another. I dug into the sand with both hands and lifted the treasure free, amazed. My skin hummed with joy, sudden and bright. And then I woke up.
Last night, Saturday, the wishbone was dry enough to break easily. Andrew was downstairs with the rest of the kids, playing another round of whatever-it-is-they-do. He hadn’t asked about the bone all day Friday. Maybe, I thought, he had forgotten. Maybe it would be better to throw it away, rather than risk mass indignation when the other kids found out about our sly plot.
But on second thought, I leaned over the banister and called Andrew’’s name.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Come up, please.” I tried to sound bored, even a bit grumpy, so nobody would suspect.
He came to the foot of the stairs. “What is it?” He sounded a bit nervous, as if he might be in trouble.
“Just come up for a minute.” I turned and walked into the kitchen, where he joined me seconds later. I reached behind the Kleenex box and grabbed the wishbone, then held it up for him to see.
“Yes!” He looked over his shoulder, then grasped one side of the bone, thumb wedged against the tip. I did the same. And on the count of three, we both pulled out and up, stretching the thin rib-like bone until it snapped.
On his side.
Now, let me make one thing clear: nine times out of ten, when I’m playing a game or having some other competition with one of my kids, I want the kid to win. But last night, I let out a whoop (as loudly as I dared) and held the bone high, my half plus the top inch of Andrew’s. Because I really, really wanted the right to make a wish.
And so, once Andrew had rejoined his siblings downstairs, still giddy despite his loss, I stood in my quiet kitchen and sent my wish outward and upward: a wish for extra bones hiding in the sand; a wish for more moments, enough for every person bound to my heart with leathery tendons. A wish for abundance.
