When my mother sees a white horse, she spits on the palm of her left hand, makes a fist with her right, and smacks the spittled spot, sealing the wish. She says, "You can't tell your wish to anyone. If you do, it won't come true."
She doesn't see white horses often, but, like the rest of us, she seems to have secret wishes ready and waiting. She is nearly ninety-seven. My guess is that she has two wishes left: to die in her sleep and soon.
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