When You Wish Upon a Star (Shaped Lug)

I have never been to Disneyland. I have never had children but always loved them. I never thought that it made me less of a woman by any means. Some women are meant to be mothers, and some are meant to be aunts and aunties. I love the nieces and nephews that I have - but they don’t make me want one of my own. I have ridden for hours on my bike to be there when my sister pushed out one misshapen and howling baby, red faced and outraged, into a world that could never be as perfect as the one he just left. I have watched in awe as the wee beastie of that first moment turned into a baby after nothing more than a bath and a little cotton gown. I have breathed deeply of that sweet smell at the back of their head.

These kids, every one of them, knows the sound of my motorcycle and comes running into the driveway, screaming and laughing. They love me because I am like the special holidays, breezing in a couple times a year and only staying long enough to be favored, never long enough to wear on anyone’s nerves. They talk to me about my motorcycle a lot, and I can tell which of my siblings have talked badly about the bike or what they think they know about my lifestyle back at home. For the record, none of them have been there.

My niece, the oldest child of my youngest brother, is bound and determined that she is coming to spend time with me. She comes and pats my motorcycle’s leather seat almost lovingly, talking in wistful tones of getting out and moving away from the little town she thinks is stifling her. Her high school is killing off her brain cells, she says, making her less of the person that she is meant to be. There are no teachers in the world that can reach her. I hide a smile and then tell my niece what I do for a living. As a high school teacher, I do get a lot of that- students who need something other than the education they are getting, something different than what the other students are getting. Special, gifted students like the brilliant little genius I know my niece can be.

Of all of the children borne of my sisters and brothers, this one is the one that is most like me at her age. She is restless but respectful, wistful but not morbid. She wants something but she can’t put her finger on what that something might be. I reach inside of the saddle bag and pull out two books, one beaten and dingy looking, the other a shiny red, almost glistening with its promise. I give them to her and smile. The first is my journal, the one I carried religiously when I was her age. The new one is her own version of this book, its pages blank and hopeful.

I don’t know what any of the children will be, but I know that this one will excel no matter what she decides. When she is old enough, I will take her out on the bike and she can tell me about her hopes and dreams. Until then, she can tell it to the journal.