I Wish Upon my Lashes

I stand in the bathroom, looking in the long mirror at my freshly scrubbed face. I like the way my eyes look when they are freshly washed, like little pools of water. Deep in the middle, so deep that you can only see black. And as they slowly slant upwards, it becomes golden with the sun, then green with the moss from the stones beneath it, and than it reaches the shore, a vast world of pure white marble, shiny, and clean. And I love my lips as well. They look so kissable, and so smooth, and beautiful, with that barely noticeable freckle above the top one. I always find myself thinking that whomever I choose to let kiss those lips, should be forever grateful that they get to kiss such lovely ones. I notice, however, that there is a little bit of Mascara left upon my lashes, so I take a pad, soaked in makeup remover, and pull gently at my eyes. Some of my lashes fall off in the process, resting on the top of the pad. At first I am upset that they have come off. But then I remember how you are supposed to blow upon them, and let them free into the air, and then you will be granted one wish. I blow upon them, but they stick to the pad, stick because of the mascara that still coats them. And I suddenly feel overwhelmingly sad. And I don’t know why. I just wanted to be granted that wish, I just wanted to watch my eye lashes blow around me as if I were a small child again, and mother had just explained to me that I could do this, and get a wish magically granted. I stare at the little black bits of hair that shade my lovely pools of eyes, and make a wish anyways. I wish that things of this nature would not happen any more. I wish that things would never be ruined. I wish that life would always be magical. That things I once cherished would never disappear like that again.