186: Magic

Your birthday is coming up and I will probably get you another tie or a new shirt, maybe a book you don’t need.

You could add it to the stack by your bed

or somewhere in the vicinity of your desk.

It’ll be a gift similar to last year, which I

honestly can’t remember, because it was probably

another tie or another shirt or another book.

But if I could, I would

wish on stars and empty out

my pockets until I could give you

glimpses of magic.

I would give you lavender and musical theater, chickens that lay

speckled pastel eggs and the feeling of coming home, bottled up in your pocket.

I’d give you snowy afternoons, permission to sled as an adult,

hot cups of coffee and dancing in the kitchen. I’d make you slow-rising bread

and your grandmother’s caramel cake. I’d send you your favorite memories of

piggy back rides, family dinners and open road; and after you’d opened all of that,

I’d give you windows-wide open, bird murmurations and rain on a tin roof.

I’d deliver an extra long hug, an old porch swing and a

fridge full of photos. I’d send you truckloads of joy, the feeling of

being seen, and quiet mornings to say goodbye to the moon.

Then I’d finish with caramelized onions and perfectly sauteed garlic,

the crackle of a fire, the smell of a bookstore, a gin cocktail with

garden fresh sage, a win in Spades, a hand to hold-

only my favorite kinds of magic.

Written by Sarah Speed // Writing the Good