The Ritual

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Callie shrieked and grabbed my arm, skidding on a patch of ice, then giggled as we ventured into my back yard. A bit high and very drunk on Pinot Noir, we rang in the New Year, hoping for change but expecting none.

“Shhh,” I slurred, nearly dousing the tiny candle flame, “You’ll wake my neighbors.” At least I’d thought to tuck the jar into my coat pocket. Our boots crunched in the crystalline snow glittering under the bright winter moon, while our breath clouded into tiny ghosts in the still and frosty night.

After the ball dropped, I’d suggested the ritual, a tradition passed down from my grandmamma. Rather than make doomed resolutions broken before the first thaw, we write our wishes on slips of paper, place them in a jar along with three coins, and bury them.

“Casting our hopes at the start of a new year is like planting seeds,” I explained.

“Don’t suppose Roger buried a jar of his own last year?” Callie said, causing my neck hair to prickle.

“Why do you ask?” Bringing up my missing husband was a total buzz kill. The relief his absence brought was instantly shattered.

She pointed at the tracks in the snow. My gaze followed, ending at the tiny jar-sized mound someone had dug. A whisper in my ear, frozen and familiar.

“You weren’t the only one to make a wish, dear.” END