Page 14 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

“What does normal feel like?” I asked.

I can’t imagine how anything could ever feel normal without you, Mom.

“Less angry.”

I took a deep breath. “What helps?”

Beau shuffled closer. “Time. And talking.”

But I don’t want to talkaboutyou, Mom. I want to talktoyou.

“I talk to him, about him. I talk about everything,” Beau admitted. “Plans, things I want to do.”

I tilted my head away and banished the tear from my face with my thumb. Mom, we planned so many things. Big and small things. So many that I’m afraid I’ll forget.

“Like what?”

“College ball. NFL.”

I could hear the pain in Beau’s voice, and my heart hurt knowing he’s felt this longer than I have.

“Wishes or dreams?”

“No. Those things are dreams.”

Cocking my head, I asked, “What’s the difference?”

“You dream with your head. And wish with your heart.”

I swear, Mom, my heart stopped beating because that was something you might say, and for a second, I wanted to tell him goodnight and shimmy back down the trellis into my room so I could catch my breath.

But before I could do that, he continued, “A dream you can work toward. But a wish you put out there and hope it happens, even when you know it probably won’t. It’s only about hope.”

I had to look away from Beau because I know that’s true. Because Mom, I wish I could hug you, and I know that’s not possible, but part of me—my heart, my bones—still hopes that one day it might be true.

Taking a deep breath, I mirrored Beau’s position and laid my head on my knees, facing him. He was picking dried leaves off a shingle between us.

“What do you wish for?”

Beau looked right at me, and I felt, even in the waning light as night fully approached, like he was looking rightintome.

“Just one more day.”

I want one more day too, Mom. I want one more day to tell you how angry I am that you thought I could do this alone. I want to hug you and hit you at the same time and beg you to stay, beg you to know just how much we all need you around. But then I’d use the rest of the day to do everything we had planned—and wished—to do together.

Remember, Mom, when I told you I wished for a friend? I found one.

So, maybe Beau was wrong about wishes only being about hope. Because on the roof, as we sat eating the cake with our hands, wiping our sticky fingers on our shirts, talking about all the things we would do if we had more time, I knew Beau was that wish come true.

Love,

Sienna

do you want to know a secret?

Dear Mom,

It’s been forty-four days since you died and a few weeks since I punched Beau in the face and he showed up with cake. We see each other at school and talk, but not as much as we do on the roof after the sun goes down and Dad goes to sleep.

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