Page 40 of Wish For Me

I set the paper down in the windowsill.

Every year, when the holidays are over and we hug goodbye, at first I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a piece of my heart. Then I remind myself that the countdown is already on to next year, so instead I lock my heart in a little box. An old-fashioned suitcase used only for Christmas vacations maybe, which I tuck away on a shelf, ready to pull out with breathless anticipation the following year.

But it’s Christmas, and you’re not here.

This year, you’re up in the sky. You took off yesterday, and as I write this, you’re careening toward that little sliver of light in the sky.

You said it’s a three-day journey to get there—ten days in all. But for us it’s two years apart

I read fifteen books this summer. None of them were mysteries—all of them were novels about the moon. (Did you know there are hundreds of them?). I watched a documentary on NASA and cried the whole way through.

But it’s Christmas, and you’re not here. I told myself I’d survive this holiday without you. I’ve already made a life out of missing you.

But I’m looking at the moon right now and I hate it. I despise the moon for getting you when I can’t.

Stupid, isn’t it? To hate the moon?

I only hate it because I love you.

But Leif, that’s not even my biggest confession. Isn’t that crazy? My biggest confession is—

A sharp bang on the door startles me and I drop my pen.

“Noelle?”

It’s Marissa. It can’t have been half an hour, can it?

The door creaks open, and Marissa steps in, looking slightly anxious. Then she looks behind her, and I see why.

“Mom!”

My mom slips into the room, her eyes wide and shiny. “Hi honey!”

I leave the letter where it is and run to the door, throwing my arms around her. “I thought you weren’t going to make it?”

“We only said that to surprise you, sweetheart,” Dad says, coming in behind Mom. He looks older, his hair a little thinner.

“And of course you fell for it,” Dan chimes in. He looks the same.

“You all came.” I feel like bursting into tears.

“Oh honey, don’t ruin your makeup!” Mom thrusts a paper bag at me. “These are for you. To wish you luck.”

“Break a leg, honey,” Dad says.

Mom looks at me with an expression so deep my heart twists.

“This should have been you,” I blurt.

Everyone goes still. Even Marissa, looking up from her clipboard.

“What?” Mom asks.

“I did this because I wanted you to be proud of me, but I don’t want…” I hesitate, seeing Marissa. I don’t finish the thought; it’ll crush her.

Mom and Dad exchange a look.

“Oh sweetheart,” Mom says. “It’s just jitters. You’re going to do great.”

---