It was old and brittle, many months forgotten, on top of the spice rack. A wishbone,liberated from some poultry which sustained me and then became a memory removed with the flossing of my teeth.
I picked it up and entertained the first thought that always comes to mind for most people: Make a wish. I am not superstitious and I don’t believe in magical chicken bones. But if I did, I told myself, what would my wish me? I knew I would have a hard time choosing just one. So I wished two wishes. I wished to find my soulmate and wished to be less fearful.
Then I pulled the two bone apart to seal the wishes, wondering which one the bone would choose for me with its longer side. But the bones had broken in precisely the same location on each side, partway down, and the top of the wishbone, where those two bones intersected into a larger joint, popped off, torpedoed me on the forehead, and fell to the floor.
Life can’t ever be simple, I thought.
It struck my “third eye” where things are seen? And that, because the big bone– the mechanism which would provide those wishes–hit that spot, would I also also SEE something important from it?
Or does it simply mean I was being a bonehead?