I draw a deep breath, close my eyes, and lose myself in the recesses of my mind. I don’t want to waste a wish, so it needs to be a good one.
For a moment, I come up completely blank. What should I wish for?
The vivid memory of the couple I had witnessed in the woods flit across my memory. The man’s strong but gentle hand, their bodies meshed together in passion and desire, the look of utter adoration, reverence, and desire in their gazes. The hot, passionate sex.
“That,” I whisper to myself. “I want some of that.”
With that, I gather all the hope within me, channeling it into a single wish, my deepest desire. “I want what they have,” I say aloud, the words echoing into the silence like a profound secret shared.
I hold onto the bell’s clapper, pausing for a moment to savor the anticipation. Then, with a swift movement, I ring it, the melodic chime reverberating through the crisp air, casting my wish into the ether.
A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not out of fear; it’s anticipation, excitement, and hope. I wait a moment, feeling like something is about to happen.
“Mrow.”
Mango’s complaint startles me because I was so intently waiting for something to happen. I laugh at my goofiness. “Okay, I hear ya, Mango. Let’s get on the road.”
CHAPTER 7
Lily
Settling Mango more firmly in my arms, I shush his grumbles and scratch him under his chin. As I give the wishing bell a final fond look, I realize I can hear the rhythmic thump of drums approaching. Turning around, my eyes widen as I see the throng of color and activity filling the street.
“Oh no,” I gasp as a parade marches up the main street. I grab my bags hastily and make a dash for it, my heart pounding in sync with the escalating tempo of the marching music. If I’m fast enough, I should be able to get to my car before the parade blocks me in.
The crowd that had been at the concert earlier is now lining the street, making it difficult to get through and make my escape. Not wanting to be rude but still hurrying, I bump and weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as I go. The street has transformed into a vibrant spectacle of confetti, extravagant floats, and joyous townsfolk, their laughter and excitement filling the air. I dart and weave through the flood of prancingchildren, chattering adults, and enthusiastic vendors, clutching my bags and trying not to knock anything over and protecting Mango in the cradle of my body.
I arrive at the edge of the street opposite my car when the high school marching band comes into view. I momentarily consider dashing across the street in front of them but realize that there is no way I can get my car started and reverse out of my parking spot without mowing down a bunch of innocent teenagers.
“Shit!” I mutter, getting a reproving look from the elderly couple standing next to me. “Sorry,” I whisper/yell to them with an apologetic grimace.
Blowing out a defeated breath, I resign myself to watching the parade instead of leaving as planned.
The beginning of the parade comes abreast of me, kicked off by the local high school marching band. Their uniforms are green and black with gold trim, the colors soaking up the bright afternoon sun as the teenagers march in sync with solid beats thumping through the air. It’s a symphony of trumpets, trombones, and clarinets, their sound echoing down the town’s main street, heralding the start of festivities. Deciding to enjoy my extended stay rather than get annoyed, I cheer and clap with the rest of the townsfolk.
Next come the floats, each as unique and whimsical as the town itself. One float is adorned with a tongue-in-cheek motif of duct tape, chains, and garden hoses, along with the usual assortment of colorful balloons and flowers belongs to the hardware store. The next is decorated with beautifully crafted paper swans in all sizes, an imaginative design created by the town library.
The ladies’ garden club comes next. Each woman is wearing a more elaborate hat than the last, all of them gathered inside a float made to look like a makeshift flowerpot teeming withflowers. The senior ladies wave continuously, their faces glowing with pride, their outfits vibrant against the bouquet of blooming flowers surrounding them. The float oozes pure love for nature but is somehow filled with a competitiveness that makes me grin. I cheer louder for them, getting lost in the sheer joy rippling through the crowd.
The joyful shrieks of children pull my attention. An old-fashioned, bright red fire truck rolls out onto the parade path. The local firefighters, dressed in their uniforms, are perched atop the vehicle, tossing handfuls of candy. The sweet treats rain down on the kids, and they scramble to collect as much as possible, their screams of delight filling the air. The truck, the firefighters, the candy throwing – it all feels wonderfully quaint and reminds me of simpler times when joys were found in shared community experiences. Despite being a stranger here, I feel welcomed.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I notice the parade is finally nearing its end. I’ve enjoyed the festival, but I need to get on the road. I doubt that a town as small as Lublin Harbor has a hotel inside its borders. I don’t want to get stuck on the highway in the dark looking for lodging.
I sigh in relief when the final float turns a corner onto Main Street. Everyone around me starts cheering even more loudly at its arrival. Colorful confetti rains over everyone’s head, and the high school band, now assembled in the field behind me, plays a grand march.
Atop the float stands Koko, the bakery owner, looking effortlessly elegant. The float is like an ode to grains and the harvest, covered in wheat stalks and sheaves of other golden crops, all reminiscent of an autumn harvest. Koko’s dress is a shimmering fall of fabric, draped in warm golds and rich purples. Her costume reminds me of the Statue of Liberty’s robes, cascading down her body in glittering pleats. It makes methink of the story of Cleopatra cruising along the Nile on her golden pleasure barge. I do a double take when I realize that next to Koko is a huge white dog, an enormous hound, dusted from tail to snout in a shimmering gold powder that catches the sunlight. Whoever thought to add wings is a genius – the dog looks like some kind of shimmering canine angel, ready to leap off the float and fly off into the sunset. The dog is clearly avery good boywho stands at Koko’s side, his tail wagging slowly and a happy canine grin, seemingly unbothered by all the noise and commotion.
Koko stands tall and proud on the float, some kind of wooden spindle hanging from her hand. In the sunlight, Koko glows, an otherworldly aura surrounding her, making her seem larger and more regal. I squint against the sun, trying to understand what she is holding. Is it a wooden ornament? A children’s spinning top? Something large and red is wrapped around the thin, pointed top.
I squint, trying to figure out what I’m seeing. It’s wool or cotton. Mesmerized, I watch as Koko plucks and twists the red cotton. In her other hand, she dangles the spindle, which reminds me of a whirligig. I finally figure out that Koko is spinning wool, but the demonstration I once saw on a school field trip was at a wheel, not using a free-held device like Koko has.
I’m unsure how long I stand there, staring open-mouthed as her float rolls past, effortlessly spinning raw materials into a thin, fine thread. The spindle hangs suspended mid-air, twirling with a speed that it blurs. I’m super impressed that Koko can spin yarn on a moving float without even having to watch her hands.
I assume this is some kind of tradition for the festival. She displays an impressive familiarity with a traditional practice.Only then do I remember to breathe, a smile curling my lips as the float comes near.
I’ve forgotten about Mango in my arms until he nudges my chin, demanding that all my attention be on him and not the procession.
“Wow, Mango, isn’t that cool?” I whisper to him, scratching him under his chin. I point toward the float. He follows my finger, but instead of sharing my delight, he takes one look at the dog next to Koko and startles, hissing loudly.
