Wishing Well

“There you’ll meet the devil at the bottom of a wishing well. You know you better give him something, give him something good.” – Five For Fighting

The park is dead empty, except for the rustle of red leaves, the sleepy, hollow sound of the yawning wind, the lazy swaying of naked tree-arms, and a middle-aged lady bending over a wishing well. There are no joggers, cyclists, skaters, screaming children or footballers with their vulgar jargon – just the gentle waves of grass basking in the silver moonlight – and this, she thinks, this is the time for herself.

Soft, breezy air ticklers her callused hands, and the lady clasps her purse suspiciously, but she reassures herself there’s no one else around to harass her (unless you count the ants scuttling a zigzag along the uneven stony ground). She pretends she does not see anything alive, in the fog of her breath. Several dried, crusty leaves fall onto her fur coat, as if seeking solace, but she does not notice them. The mysterious black water surface rests quietly.

For a brief moment, the full moon decides to be kind, and shines directly overhead the mouth of the well. At once the lady sees her pale, fading features illuminated like a Chinese funeral lantern that has just been lit. The mercury-coloured water exaggerates her wrinkly face, but her jade jewellery does not light up in the same effulgent manner as gold or silver earrings and necklaces would. Her eyes twinkle with tears that permeate the sparkling water surface without ripples.

Then, looming clouds obscure the moon, and the well is submerged in pitch-blackness again. Yet the lady still persistently gazes down, trying to make sense out of the nothingness shrouding the water. She peers down fixatedly, and suddenly she sees her husband – a face she sees only once or twice a year. His image is undistorted in the darkness, for the moon is not there to tell lies. The lady wonders how he is doing overseas with his business, whether or not he has forgotten her, and the thought of that makes her grip her purse even more tightly.

She blinks and sees the smiling countenance of her son, and she can almost hear his voice – perfectly fluent English with some newly acquired American accent – and it sounds so unfamiliar from the Chinese boy she gave birth to and raised in her culture. Must be because of the foreign university he’s studying in, she muses, but she can’t stop worrying about his studies, the friends he’s making and anything else a mother would be concerned about for her son.

Finally she sees her own mother, a stubborn, senile woman living far in the suburbs. She lies sick in bed, yet refusing to be attended to. The lady wonders if that’s actually herself she’s seeing a few decades into the future. Like mother, like daughter, she jokes, but the sight of her mother suffering stifles her laughter that almost broke the silence rudely.

She blinks one last time and the obsidian depths revert back to nothingness. The throbbing wind seems to be hurrying her to make a wish. With trembling hands, she hastily rips open her purse. Notes, all paper notes – she should’ve known better. Through the debris pile of notes, she nervously digs for coins to offer, and finds two cents. Thank goodness she has something to offer.

She closes her eyes and breathes silently, then drops the coins as she makes her wish, and watches them disappear into the darkness, but she doesn’t hear the sound of water splashing in acceptance; just the raw, clinking sound of metal scraping against stone.