I Wish

I used to have a Christmas wish list when I was a kid. When I think about it now, those lists started out simply enough.

I wish I had this doll.

I wish I had these clothes for my doll.

I wish I had a dollhouse.

How fondly I remember those lists. They were filled with newness. Excitement. Possibility.

Early in October, the Christmas Wishbooks would start to arrive. Sears & Roebuck. J.C. Penney. Spiegel. Lillian Vernon. Page after page after page of delightful temptations.

How I loved looking at those catalogs!

I gathered them all up and took them into the living room. Flopping down on the floor in front of the fire, I was transported into a wonderland of fantasies and dreams. I spent hours poring over those catalogs, marking pages and making notes. I dreamed of a bounty of presents and all my wishes fulfilled.

When Christmas arrived, I was thrilled to find even one of my wishes under the tree. The reality of being the youngest of eight kids meant socks and underwear came in December, disguised as gifts.

But that never diminished my love of Christmas, or the possibilities waiting to be discovered inside the pages of those catalogs.

As I got older, the lists began to change. The clothes I couldn't have cared less about a few years ago became the most important section of the catalogs. Jewelry and shoes, purses and handbags became far more interesting.

Years passed. I had my own home, and the list changed again. The clothes became less important. Suddenly I was captivated by towels and dishes. Bedspreads and throw pillows took on new significance. Small kitchen appliances became obsessive objects of desire.

The years moved on.

Overnight, I went from looking at the toys I wanted to looking at the toys my kids wanted.

There was a new kind of excitement as I watched their eyes light up at the thrill of making their own Christmas wish lists. My list became their list, filled with things to delight them and fun stocking stuffers.

And, because I was still a product of my own childhood, socks and underwear.

All too soon, their lists began to change. They became too old for toys that once would have made their world complete.

The catalogs are gone now.

The kids are grown, with homes and kids of their own.

The house is quiet.

And clean.

I still have my list. But it's no longer wishful. It's wistful.

I wish I had more energy.

I wish I still had my 20-year-old body. I'd appreciate it more!

I wish I could see my kids and grandkids this Christmas.

I wish I had truly understood how fast decades would go by.

I wish I could have one more conversation with my brothers and my parents.

I wish I had more time.