A Wish for Gold
As I sit here on this mound of snow and ice and the frigid wind slaps across my face with vigor, I think back to a wish of mine I had made many days ago. My wish for wealth and honor, prestige and love. I was born poor and thus would live my life poor but would I have been happy? Would I have been at peace?
It seemed a miracle the day after I had made that silent wish in my rickety old apartment, that I found a wet newspaper on the street telling stories about the gold rush up north. “Overnight men are becoming rich,” it read. At that moment it was like a prophecy, now, mere hollow words on paper.
My fingers feel as though they have already fallen off. I glance over to Robert. The poor fellow lay there on the sled motionless. He and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. We began as petty thieves stealing bread from street vendors for our mothers. Now Robert and I were rich thanks to the gold rush.
Storytelling was Robert’s true passion however. He only agreed to join me on my lust for gold if he could open his own publishing house with the money we made. How would I ever write to his dear frail mother about his passing? Would I ever get the chance to write to my own mother?
I doubt every thought that enters my head. No fortune and glory. No peace. The wind begins to pick up now. The wind gives out a howl, a blood curdling howl. Never in my life have I felt a greater need to cry, yet tears fail to leave the warm sanctity of my eyes.
I take one last glance at Robert as the snow swallows him. A horrid rumination surfaces in my mind. I will die here rich in material but poor in heart. I will be lost to time and reside in a sarcophagus of snow and ice. I will die a man whose wish came true.