What if I were granted sixty wishes, one for every year since I was born?
The sun is up; the sky is blue; my feet are free to dance.
How could I ever ask for more?
God hands us a paint brush, and we paint our lives away, splatters on our pants, but a new landscape every day.
The canvas is lovely, full of light and shadow, streaks of joy, and dabs of sorrow.
I see a mist rise up above a shining sea; I see a girl dancing at the shoreline, and she looks a lot like me.
I hear my own laughter in the wind; I celebrate all the places I have been, and all that I have seen.
I celebrate the people I have loved, and known, and all that is yet to be.
What of those sixty wishes?
I lived those wishes every day, and dreamed so many dreams.
The moon is up; the stars are shining; my feet still like to dance.
The colors may blur, and the canvas fade a softer color; the vision is the same.
If I lived to be one-hundred, how could I ever ask for more?
