Wishing Well

My mother has built a wishing well in our backyard. 

She began with the crap-covered cement birdbath and ran a hose to it. She then hooked up a little sprinkler that shot water like a mini-geyser. She accentuated the birdbath with a collection of fired clay pots to collect the spray, as well as the change she kept tossing – one coin at a time.  

I ditch my bike by the picnic table and went in for closer inspection.

She’s plucking the coins out of a wide-mouth Mason jar and pitching them into the fountain with her thumb, stretched out as she was on a chaise lounge under a blue-and-white striped beach umbrella. She has on this ridiculous white satin one-piece bathing suit. Her brown eyes are hidden by these white sunglasses, with hideous pink palm trees built into the chunky plastic frames.

She’s painted her toes and fingernails a fiery red, like the coating of a carnival candied apple. A floppy, wide-brimmed hat covered her raven hair. She was really playing up the glamor aspect, much to my horror. 

Thank goodness for the line of thick shrubs that separated our lawn from the rest of the neighborhood.

Since coming out the backdoor is my dad, his hair slicked back and surprisingly jet-black, showing none of his natural gray. He has on black Wayfarers and no shirt. He’s a towel over one arm, and a fruity drink in his right hand, which is complete with a ginormous pink paper umbrella. 

What is most disturbing is the enormous bulge in the front of the rather tight, light green Janzen swim trunks.

“Mother!”

She drew down the shades from her eyes and winks.

“Why, it’s a lady’s prerogative to always wish big.”