This story led to happy crying throughout my whole commute to work (who am I kidding, more like happy sobbing). Not sure exactly why, but it hit me right in the feels - I still feel warm and fuzzy, as well as on the verge of tears hours later. Something about the cyclic nature of life and longing and small things sometimes being just as important as big things, and great, now I'm tearing up again at my desk! Maybe its just something about how magic could be real, but just uncommon, and when it touches our life, we chalk it up to a lucky toss of the dice vs a sentient fountain.
I'm always caught off guard by how emotional YA fiction can make me. I think the purity of the stories pairs with dual nostalgia for my childhood and hope for the future, I'm at the point in my life where I identify both with the kids and with the parents.
Also - to defend all of those people wishing insignificant things. I know for myself, I always want to give wishes wiggle room. If I wish for something important or concrete and it doesn't come true, then either magic isn't real or magic is a jerk. But if I wish for something small or something intangible, it gives me greater leeway to believe
