Don't Wish. Don't Start.

I wish she could string clover chains and spin in a twirly skirt, or pump high on a swing till her toes graze the sun. I wish she could squeeze all of my fancy body wash into the tub, and sneak Sharpie drawings on the walls. I wish she could belt out showtunes around the family piano and sing in the childrens choir at church.  I wish she could prance around in dress up clothes and race on the swim team at the local pool.  I wish she could choose a favorite subject in school and show off her report card at home. I wish she could sport more pigtails and spout more words.  I wish she could be a big sister, take her little brother by the hand and show him the ropes. I wish she could cement friendships and flirt with boys.  I wish she could aspire to be a teacher or a marine biologist. Or a Rockette.

There's no way to predict her future, except to know that it won't entail any of the those wishes coming true.  We don't need a medical degree or a crystal ball to know that her time here won't be long, that the years ahead of her are likely fewer than the years behind. That's not to say that we don't catch ourselves wishing the good Lord would reach down and do the work that none of us can do, that we don't sometimes hope for something holy to occur that could redirect our course.  We try hard not to compare Celia to the girl we hoped she'd be, try not to hold on to so many impossible dreams. 
Because it's true, wishing only wounds the heart.

JEB