Count Forty Stars
I stop to wipe the sweat off my brow. Not only does the heat bother me, but the earthen water pot also weighs heavily on my head.
I wish that I was a lady of a manor. Not the menial tasked woman who works for ladies who benefit from rich husbands, who lords over household servants, and who make the inferior feel less as humans.
The path to the river and back is a rough stretch. Among small rocks and hard ground, I walk barefoot. Not a sound escapes my lips when sharp-edged stones make tiny aberrations to my feet. Tiny as they are, they penetrate the skin of my soles to make deep lacerations.
I keep walking. Not the blood or the tears I care for. They matter not in my world of hardened misgivings.
There is the field that I yearn to go to. To seek the solace my poor heart craves. But the hours are far away still. The day has not ended for the night to waken my spirit of restless conquest.
It will be this night.
The sun hides at the hour it must. I walk to the field where the wildflowers thrive and rich vegetation covers its dark brown terrain. I hear the crickets from afar.
They sing a song of their own.
I hear the winds whisper as I wait for the stars to appear. They will show up soon, I console myself.
At the hour the skies house the constellation, I count up to forty stars.
I make a wish.
A secret will it be until it comes to fruition someday.