Wishing Well by Briana Naseer
My mother counts pennies
rather than sheep in her sleep—
Three hundred and ninety-nine
get unlimited access
to the local pizza buffet chain
where my father chastises my sister and I
if we eat less than four plates.
I swear the lines engraved
on my mother’s face come from
the way she analyzes each receipt
just a few feet away
from the Walmart cashier,
making sure they counted all her coupons
and didn’t scan that red onion twice.
I will never forget the fear that bore
into me, along with her eyes,
when she realized she’d paid
for the toy rabbit I casually
slipped into the cart
without asking;
I will never forget
that she let me keep it,
despite.
My summers are spent
in a stifling car, my father making us
tag along to all his odd jobs;
the broken air conditioning
is not enough of a priority to fix,
not even in July, not even in Florida.
But still, they both allow themselves
the small dream of a lottery ticket,
each time they stop
at the gas station.
It’s the only time I see my mother
spend a dollar with just a wild hope
she gets something back in return—
It’s the only time my father
remembers my birthday,
the numbers he religiously plays.
