When I was little, my mom always insisted on throwing a coin into every fountain we passed. Evyn, we should make a wish!, she'd say. Whether it was superstition or just a habit I never figured out, but as soon as I see the fountain on my college campus, I think of her. I haven't spoken to her in a few months. She's going to counseling, trying to get better.

So am I.

I can hear the water rushing as I get closer, the water sparkling in the sunlight. I stop a few feet away and dig through my purse, looking for spare change. I haven't seen Mom in months, but I feel like she's here, insisting that we throw a coin into this fountain, that we make a wish.

My finger brushes across something cold and metal in the bottle of my purse. A dingy copper penny. I edge my way closer to the fountain, sitting down on the edge. On the bottom of the fountain, distorted by water, are dozens of coins, gleaming like stars. All wishes. I wonder if people got their wishes or if their coins just sank to the bottom. I wonder if I'll get mine.

Rubbing my thumb over the penny, I close my eyes and take a breath, just like Mom and I always used to. I think about what I want to wish for. When I was little, it was for things like a pony or for more books to read. Now, it seems like there are bigger things vying for my attention. Things like passing my midterm, missing my friends back home, and wanting my mom to be okay, even after all the pain we've gone through together. I want both of us to be okay, to be happy, to be whole.

A couple of students walk past me, laughing, which brings me back to the moment. I close my eyes again. Take a deep breath. I drop the penny into the bottom. And I make my wish.