Candles used to mean so much more as a child. They weren’t needed for warmth, but rather, wishes. Some wishes were juvenile, while some wishes were just naïve. Promising futures, friends forever, love. Who would have thought my wishes would have been better spent on castles, ponies, even money and men? I’ve wasted too many years and too many wishes just to see them all slip away.

On my ninth birthday, I had nine wishes. A wish for every year, my mother would say. I had a friend who never made it to nine wishes, and my mother didn’t live long enough to hear my tenth. When you’re young occurrences such as unexpected deaths don’t make much sense, and as you get older, they only become more complicated. An innocent death, one of a child, a single mother, or one of someone never really given the chance to live at all, is the most tragic. Not only is such a death unnecessary, it is always undeserved. Someone on the brink of living herself or someone who works so others may live better deserves to live for as long as the beats of her heart will let her. Or possibly him, I’m not sure who it is yet. 



These thoughts of failed wishes, of undeserved death, and of the inevitability of it all bring me here, rounding some corner on Rouse Boulevard. The slight rain does not keep me from taking the long route through the town to get to the bus station. This will be my one last journey through it. Even merely walking down the street has become much more difficult, though. Not only is the onset of old age taking its toll on my joints, the shooting pain up and down my left arm has returned. It showed up just a few days after I learned of the death to come. Some days it’s just a dull pain, a relieving distraction. Other days it’s an overwhelming reminder of an impending tragic end. But whose?

I certainly hope it’s not Ronald. I’ve come to enjoy his visits and even look forward to them most days. I left what little I could spare for him in a jar next to a freshly baked loaf of bread. The rest of my money I’ll use for my ticket. Wherever the next one out will take me. I can’t imagine being here long enough to find out whose death it is I saw. Just knowing of the unforgiving fate awaiting someone unsuspecting is a burden even the heaviest heart cannot hold. I’ve spent my life uncovering secrets I wish not to have uncovered, finding answers which would have been better off unknown, and unlocking mysteries which do more harm than good. All this I have received unasked for and not until now has it troubled me so much. An innocent death. Undeserved. Unnecessary. Unasked for.

 


            Coming up to the park, the light shower suddenly turns into a heavy downpour, making it hard to see more than a couple feet in front of me. The single shooting pain seems to have multiplied into several shooting bullets, racing throughout each and every limb of my body. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to take a small break. It’s gotten more difficult to breathe, too. It feels as if a chest as heavy as the one I left in my shop has been placed on top of my lungs. Perhaps if I could just lie down a moment, I could regain my strength and still make it to the station by morning.

The slide offers to me its protection from the rain. The mulch underneath it seems to be in the exact mold that it was when I slept here as a child. And even though I’ve grown significantly since I was nine, I still fit perfectly. I might as well not have grown at all.

Early last week a vision had shown me yet another innocent death. Even after all those I’ve lived through it dared to show me one more. Another life cut short just before it had the chance to improve. No clues as to who it will be. No chance that I can save him. Or her. Most likely someone young, but perhaps they’re older. Maybe someone new to this town, or maybe someone working hard to get out.  



My breathing is slowing but becoming easier to control. The shooting pain has become a numbing sensation, making it nearly impossible to move. All I can do is look up at the slide. No longer covered in rust, but new, bright red paint. The talk of the town. No more gum, only the shine that comes with new steel. It’s just as it was years and years ago. Safe. Nine years old. A great time to be alive. It was never my job to change the future, only predict it. Nine wishes, nine dreams, nine friends forever, nine promises kept and nine different ways to be happy. I couldn’t stop it then. I cannot stop it now. If only a person could be nine forever.

Years and years of knowing peoples’ fates. Only those first nine years matter. Nine more breaths. Nine final wishes: Nine open doors for needy visitors. Eight better futures. Seven reassurances. Six smiles from strangers. Five new beginnings. Four forgotten prayers. Three places to call home. Two kept promises. And One last candle finally blown out.

Wednesday, 4pm. The shop’s been empty for two weeks now. There hasn’t been a single new visitor, nor have any passerbys even glanced through my dusty window. It might have been lonely if not for the unexpected, yet frequent – and getting more frequent with the passing days – visits from Ronald. He usually comes in without saying a word and takes his spot on the bed made of newspapers and plastic bags I set up each morning for him. I’m not picky when it comes to cleanliness, but I do have my limits. He knows to leave his coat outside the door and crack the stubborn window at least two inches before he takes his seat. These measures are more of a mental fix than a physical alleviation to the unmistakable stench that trails him throughout the city. These visits usually do not consist of much conversation. Occasionally a few words are passed, but for the most part we sit in silence. Silence often means more than small talk. To Ronald, the fresh pieces of bread and cups of juice I give him probably mean more than the silence. I try to light the small oven in the corner of my shop on the days I think he’ll show up. I’m only right about half the time. The oven heats a small portion of the room, most likely only within a one-foot radius.

I suppose Ronald really only visits for the food and, if he’s lucky, the warmth. But I also think he visits for the company, even if the silent awkwardness would scare off most people. I don’t question his motives, nor do I really care to know what they are anyway. I prefer these silent encounters to no encounters at all, especially when no one else has dared to enter my doorway in weeks.

It's Tuesday, the one day of the week I actually enjoy leaving the shop to make the walk through town to the weekly food market. It offers the closest thing to fresh produce this town has ever experienced. It's also the cheapest, at least compared to the overpriced, processed and packaged food offered at the Food Mart, which I only visit out of necessity. My walk to the market consists of taking nearly every turn and every street to get there. I visit the market even on weeks I don't need any fruits or vegetables just so I can make this walk. It's nice, for lack of a better word, to see all the changes that have taken place in the town over the years. It's even more interesting to see what all has stayed the same. Plus, this town is full of hermits. I don't want to burden it with another one. At least not on Tuesdays.

My turn onto Polaski leads me to the crowd forming around the bank. A man I've never seen before is on top of the building, reading Bible scriptures and stumbling through every three syllable word and foreign name. A small, timid woman walks up beside me, amused by the sight. I almost don't recognize her without her dog. She's new here and looks as if she has yet to adjust. Nervously, she tries to make small talk.
"Think he's crazy?"
I shake my head. "Not any crazier than Jesus himself was."
She starts to laugh and then stops abruptly, unsure if I'm joking or not.
"Well I think he must be crazy. Why else would he do such a thing?"
I nod, not wanting to give much thought to the hundreds of reasons a person might "do such a thing."
"Maybe" she continues, "He's that criminal who escaped from the police station. I hear they're all crazy down there."
Before she can say any more, the bank's security guards step outside and push the crowd backwards. Instead of staying any longer I decide to continue on my way to the market.

This town never fails to amuse me.

The sun came out today, a nice change in pace from the bleak and uninviting blizzards that discouraged curious passerbys from my street corner last week. When I was younger my mother would say such days weren't meant for wasting. Ironically enough, the week after her funeral was filled with them. Sun shining, birds chirping, flowers blooming. Not a cloud in sight. Perfect, or so it appeared.

But it's what my mother always used to say that brought me here, to the town park. It's currently home to more illegal activities than happy childhood memories, but it continues to house all of mine (all two or three of them, that is). It didn't use to look this way. That swing set over there used to be the talk of the town, at least for those of us under the age of 12. And that slide. It hasn't always been covered up with rust and gum. I even used to sleep under it when I'd run away from home. My stepfather never failed to find me here and drag me home the following mornings. This was a common occurrence after my mother died and became more and more frequent as the years passed. One morning he didn't come after me, though, and when I finally returned to his place, he wasn't there. Somehow I was the one always running away, yet he was the one who escaped.

This park doesn't bring the same comfort it once did to my preadolescent self. Nothing in this town does.

I'm not the only one paying the park a visit today. A young woman attempts to interest two young kids into playing with the distraught-looking play structure. Donald James is also here, just walking through, muttering under his breath as usual. I like him, though. He doesn't expect to get more out of this place than what it has to offer (which isn't much of anything). I remember him from a year or so ago. He had a few dollars he wanted to "waste on something useless," so he paid my shop a visit. He was skeptical yet amused, as most people are. I told him he was a man of routine, and this routine, however dreadful and boring, wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He should expect no changes, good or bad, and he better get used to it. He believed me, but he let me know he didn't think it was worth paying to hear. I agreed, but a cold front had come in that day, and matches don't buy themselves.

He gives me a nod as he walks past, and I return the favor. Both of us have an understanding of what it means to be part of this town, and neither of us are fooled by a bright, sunny day such as this one.

It's too cold to leave the shop today, though I doubt I'd leave even if it weren't. This hasn't kept others from wandering the streets, however. So, I make myself a pot of tea and position myself on an old wooden chair near the window. It appears that no one outside is prepared for a cold front like this one. A few pedestrians even have the nerve to beam their beady eyes in my direction, as if it's my fault. No crystal ball or deck of tarot cards could have predicted this blizzard, and this isn't to mention that weather really isn't my specialty anyway. That midget girl gives me the worst look of them all, though I am sure it has nothing to do with the weather. She visited me last week, and when I refused to refund her visit after telling her what she didn't want to hear (that her father was, in fact, right about her job choice), she stormed her stubby little legs right out of here. I also picked up on a hint of her meeting someone special in the coming months, but I saw her head angrily bobbing up and down on the other side of the shop window long before I had the chance to tell her. I suppose that's for the best. Good news is much better off when it's not expected. 

One girl doesn't look so angry as she passes by. In fact, she even forces a smile. From this alone I can tell she's new here. She also looks lost, and no doubt, she's probably wondering how she got herself into whatever situation brought her here. Whoever this girl is, she's in for a lot of surprises these next couple of days.

Business has been slow this week. In fact, it's been slow for the past seventeen years. Slow enough to make affording food impossible, yet not slow enough to spare me the visits of the occasional whiney customer. Everyone comes in wanting to hear the same thing: good news, promise of a hopeful future, or an improvement in financial situations. Unfortunately, this is rarely the case, especially in this part of town, and people don't like to pay for what they don't want to hear. Perhaps if I told them different, I could pay to keep the shop heated and wouldn't be awakened by the cold draft that reliably comes through long before the rays of sunlight do every morning. I cannot tell such lies, though, and chances are, if any psychic tells you anything different, she is most likely a fake. This has been my experience at least. People deserve to know the truth however uneventful or even cruel it may be. Me telling them any different is, in fact, no difference at all. It only creates false hope, fake optimism, and I'd rather brave the winter with no heat and go hungry every few days than be responsible for such a thing.