Member-only story
Start
On my kitchen windowsill lies a dust covered wishbone. It’s been there since Thanksgiving evening, when my mother handed it to my youngest son, generation to generation, and reminded him to let it dry out before breaking it, before making a wish. “But what sort of thing should I wish for,” his eleven year old smile queries my direction. And I tell him, “when the wishbone is ready, dry and brittle, nearly about to break, I bet you’ll know.”
It’s been just fifty six days, nearly two months, since Thanksgiving. The wishbone sits on the sill, collecting grease splatter, water overspray, dust and the sunlight that glints off the sink at 6:11am. Everything feels nearly ready, about to break, but my son has yet to make his wish.
It’s been fifty six days since Thanksgiving. As I write this, right now, I am thinking that this number is both inaccurate and impossible. Inaccurate because it has been one or one point seven lifetimes since Thanksgiving. Impossible because everything since Thanksgiving has happened in the blink of an eye.
When I was a little girl, my mom installed a chorechart on the kitchen wall. A former special education school teacher, she had a knack for controlling the chaos that came with a houseful of two, then three, then four, then five, then six, then five children. The chore chart consisted of a grid of cards, organized under each family members’ name. Some chores…
