Wishing

The coins spin wildly across the tiles and roll into the pool of water. I stand stock-still, staring at them as they settle, the rolling eddies around them calming. They wink at me from under the surface of the now-still water.

I’m 26 years old, but suddenly I’m six again, staring mesmerized at a scattering of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.

I have a feeling the wishing well was in a zoo; I’m not sure why. A cousin took us — that I do clearly recall because when we came home and told our parents about the well, my father said disapprovingly, “We don’t believe in such things, you know that.” But I was six years old, and I didn’t quite know that at the time.

There was a pool of shallow water with an old tree bough inside, surrounded by a fence that we pressed our faces against. It was cold, and we were all wearing hats. My little brother’s looked silly because it didn’t fit him properly, and I told him so.