When I was much younger, nothing compared to the magic of seeing a true shooting star. In the deep night of a farm field, laying on a blanket, looking up, and there it is was. A brilliant streak across the sky, or a small but longer fall into the dimness, they were indelible in our memory. Wished on fervently, they carried the mystery of future promises. Our very own magic.

I am no longer so young. Now meteor watching takes planning and is often fraught with disappointment. Is it a weekday or a weeknight? Stay up late or get up early? Stay in the yard and hope the neighbor cuts the flood light, or get in the car and go up a mountain? Will it rain? Clouds? Are we in the poor viewing area? The wrong hemisphere? Is this even worth it? Who really still does this shit? And when the night stays cold and empty, a promise broken, even adults feel a little betrayed by the celestial beings.

But to make a wish on a falling star still seems to hold an ancient pull for us. It still has a magic all it’s own. Are these not the strongest of wishes, those sprinkled with star dust and said earnestly into the darkness? They sparkle in our mind like small jewels, coveted, their possibilities endless. Who truly can resist?

And so came the Eta Aquarid, worming its way into my plans, tempting me. Googling “meteor showers” several times a day, following the internet into rabbit holes on moon rise/set, radiant rise, and the myth of Aquarius, the Water Carrier. The promise of 10-30 meteors per hour could not be resisted. I took the bait. I opted for a wake up early approach, setting the alarm for 4:00 am, optimistic that I had a chance at being outside by 0430 – five at the latest. Predawn. Perfect timing.

I slapped the phone when the alarm went off. Without glasses, I missed stop and hit snooze. It went off again as I looked for socks and sweater in the dark, much to my husband’s sleep deprived chagrin. Eventually, phone in hand as a guide light, I stumbled down the stairs and onto the back porch where I paused, hand on the screen door.

It was dark. Beyond the screened-in porch there is nature. Specifically, spiders. Spiders which have built webs throughout the night just to catch some stupid, clueless prey. I needed a stick to hold before me and check for webs. “A spider stick!” my mind screamed. Finding an old broom handle I felt more prepared and slashing it up and down before me like a giant wand, I stepped onto the deck and sat in a chair. Cleared of webs, but wet as hell.

Back into the house for a blanket, a roll of paper towel, socks from the dryer – anything to keep from going upstairs again. Wrapped in a throw I settled once more into the chair, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Staring easterly as instructed by Google and Star Finder. Within minutes a dark shape flew close over my head, black and swift. An owl? A bat? Carnivorous flying squirrels? Spider stick in hand, I pulled the porch door closed cause who needs that shit in the house. Alone in the night once more, I sat on the deck and looked up. Staring, hopeful.

And then the waiting and thinking and pondering started. I composed wishes. Having read “The Monkey’s Paw” and seen Aladdin several times (not to mention every episode of Twilight Zone), I tried to frame my wishes without “gotcha!” loop holes. To the tired mind there are so many ways a wish for happiness could go wrong, none of them absurd. If I simply wished for someone to by my old house, was I wishing for a foreclosure auction? If I wished for my husband to be happy, how did I know he wouldn’t be happier without me? What then? Exactly how would I disappear? On and on it went. Over the next few hours I had many unanswered questions, each more irrational then the one before, my mind spiraling.

Can you have pending wishes? Can you wish in advance and just wait for a star to fall in case your mind is too numb to wish when you actually see the damn thing?

Is it possible to use the same wish too often? I really, really really want to sell my old house, but how many times can you wish that before its nullified? Is there a secret limit? Who keeps track?

Does the size of the falling star matter? Or the length traveled or its brightness? Little stars, little wishes; big stars, big wishes? Who classifies these? What if you put the wrong wish with the wrong star? Does it just bounce back like an email with an overlarge attachment? Who sends you the “Unable to deliver” note?

Do stars get tired of hearing us bitch wish? Wouldn’t you?

At some point I saw a meteor. A large, flashy one that fell into the Big Dipper, as if it were a basket to catch them. I made a quick wish, which had nothing to do with selling the old house (so much for planning ahead). I saw a few smaller ones, floating quickly above my house then down to the treeline. I continued down my list of wishes, waving my spider stick every now and then as a preemptive measure against a predawn spider attack. A crazed wizard wrapped in a blanket with a broom handle, practicing incantations at 5:30 in the morning.

Finally the sky began to lighten ever so softly. The birds were a loud cacophony of chits and tweets. And there was certainly now a bullfrog living in my fountain. The noise was alarming in its sudden intensity. An owl called. I was covered in dew, despite the blanket. It was time to go inside. My work complete, I had done all I could do on the wishing front for one night. I crawled into bed cold, slightly damp, and cynically optimistic I has done good.

There is a phrase adapted from a proverb: If wishes were fishes we would all cast nets. I am certain it is meant to speak to the fallacy of “wishing” instead of “doing”. But it doesn’t stop us. Deep inside we are all fishermen, whether we cast nets for the small silver fish or look down the wood of a harpoon seeking white whales; the size of the wish doesn’t matter. Its just always there, waiting for the turkey wishbone bone, a coin in a fountain or shooting star. It remains, buried inside each of us, waiting for its time. So I will keep mine close and shiny, saving them again for the Perseids, or the Leonids, or the deep December cold of the Geminids. My spider stick waits on the porch, and I have magic at my finger tips. Just ask the stars.