"I'm always wondering if he'll return. Sometimes I pray that he doesn't. And sometimes I hope he will. I wish on falling stars and eyelashes. Absence isn't solid the way death is. It's fluid, like language. And it hurts so much…so, so much."
— 'Maizon at Blue Hill,' Jacqueline Woodson
Peggy sighed and looked around her, a wave of grief washing over her as echoes played in her head.
"There's not enough time. This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York. I gotta put her in the water."
"Please don't do this. W-we have time. We can work it out."
She held a small cupcake in her hands, one small flickering candle stuck on it.
"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer a lot of people are gonna die. Peggy, this is my choice."
A sigh. "Peggy..."
"I'm here."
Laughter rang around her, her friends and family watching, waiting.
"I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance."
"All right. A week next Saturday at The Stork Club."
"You've got it."
She closed her eyes...
"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"
"You know, I still don't know how to dance."
"I'll show you how. Just be there."
...made a wish...
"We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your-"
... and blew out the candle.
She was surrounded by a sudden stillness only she could feel, lost in the moment before it was shattered and her world started moving again.
Small fingers tugged on her skirt. "What'd you wish for Aunt Peggy?" she glanced down at her beloved niece, a smile plastered on her face.
"The same thing I wish for every year," she tweaked Sharon's nose and handed her a cupcake, setting her own down on the counter.
"What's that?" she asked eagerly, fingers gripping the cupcake and eyes bright.
"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't come true, now would it?" Peggy laughed lightly as Sharon nodded seriously.
The little girl was pulled away by the other children then, her laughter trailing behind her.
What'd you wish for?
Peggy smiled sadly and leaned against the wall, eyes tearing.
The right partner.
I wait and ache.
—Sylvia Plath
