One Wish

What I want is not a wish but a dream I've kept since I was six: a farmhouse, a case of wine, a pack of dogs with their tails going, Friesian, Shire, Mustang, Gypsy Vanner. I want them all. In town they call me gentle. I carry groceries, stay late at the clinic, give my coat to whoever is cold. They say the world needs more like me. I thank them, and they step back half a pace without knowing why. Everyone wears a smile that doesn't fit. Mine fits perfectly. That is what unsettles them. When I told my family the dream, they laughed. When I told my friends, they laughed louder. I remember every one of them, and I forgave them gently, the way you do when you have all the time in the world. So I told a dog. He didn't ask why. He looked at what I really am and rested his head against me anyway, then ran in circles, tail painting joy across the grass. I'll live far from people. They will say I'm protecting my peace. Let them. I'll plant white daisies for new beginnings, sunflowers for a hope that never looks down, lavender to keep the air quiet. The earth beneath them is soft and asks no questions. Horses will race the wind and stop at the fence; even the rabbits will keep their distance. I'll hold a warm mug of coffee under the orange sky and smile at the child I used to be, the one who promised the thing inside him a field wide enough to sleep in. "See? I kept my word."