I wanted to get my mom some fresh roses. I always do. Want to that is. I always want to do a lot of things. Man if I could’ve accomplished all the things I wanted to, I’d be the most popular guy in the world. I’d be a hermit too though. Like a crab when things get to be too much. I’d have a couple of degrees under my belt but no official title. I’d speak a few different languages. And a man who lost the Madonna and Child pendant that once belonged to his deceased mother, would have his priceless heirloom back. I wish I could find it for him. I do. And I wish… you know what I’m done with wishes. I used to adore the magic of breath upon an eyelash, a dandelion. Lit candles upon a cake. Anymore I just want to appreciate the magic of reality, of sobriety. That even though I have so much more to do and have failed all the more, I’m back again by the ocean. I’m a water bearer after all and rumor has it I pour heavy. A bee stung me once when I was a kid. I was trying to swat it away on the playground at school. I remember the red of it upon my open palm. The itch that kept me up at night and how my mother smiled warmly as she kissed my forehead and rubbed sticky, fresh and green aloe vera goo upon the irritation to sooth me. It helped. I hated that bee though, with all the raw little kid emotion I could muster up and yet I wanted at the same time to use the magic powers that I truly believed I had, to traverse the flow of time and turn that bee into a wasp. Because when a wasp stings a kid it goes on sleek and smug to sting again, but when a bee stings all we are left with is a beautiful reminder of the ephemerality of its flight.