My collection of wishbones occupies a box tucked away inside a hole in the wall of my apartment. My skeletons in the closet--it has a certain ring. Each bone is meticulously labeled: occasion, date, who was present, why it was important. Thoughts of a spiral bound notebook for this data, a backup copy, cross my mind now and again, but as yet only the labels on the bones. Each is precious. Each is so very delicate. Each is a graceful white moment that sits curved in the cup of my hand.

I must confess. This box is starting to reek of desperation, but it is full of so much more than boned snapshots that fill the nadir of my nostalgia. It is full of potential wishes. Think of it, all those wishes in the palm of your hand.

I'm sure I rank fairly high on the ascending charts of collector's dementia, numerically elite from most, but still a few slots below the psychotic. Epicurean I'd like to think. And if an auctioneer produced my obtuse collection at an estate sale, the lot would be bought and my mania would live on.

It's nice to think of collecting wishes. So far I have 103, unused, divine interventions. Only one out of all those Dei ex Machina has been redeemed. Broken. One half is smooth from the countless times I have run my fingers over the surface while contemplating the meaning of life (bone structure is a fascinating vault of nature, the wishbone is like the keystone, pull it out with a tug and slight twist, and the breasts fall away easily to either side. Bones are the scaffolding of our erection, the reinforcement under our flesh. Make them hollow and we could take wing before crashing to the ground for lack of marrow). This half is pressed between the pages of my copy of The 100 Greatest Thinkers of All Time. The other swings from my key chain.

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It's impossible to convey the difficulty in obtaining unbroken wishbones. Those few people most dear to me know of my little mania and oblige it at their tables. I imagine they whisper behind my back. I imagine I don't care. The crudeness of lunging across unfamiliar dinner tables to secure my prize is not lost on me, and I know that boardinghouse reach has snapped the few potential relationships I've had. It all matters not. If I ever crave reconciliation, I have 103 bones left to break.

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Mr. Gajadhar grinds through the days to get to the nights. He is terrified of the word angst. His work has appeared online in WORDS and Quantum Muse. He can be reached at sgajadhar@rogers.com.

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This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.