She found the clover patch lying between the paper factory and the hospital.

Downs Street was silent and her nose burned as she sucked in the acid air.

With hollow knees she bent and bent and bent and finally plucked one from the damp earth.

The leaves were leathery and soft. They folded together as she pressed them into her pocket.

The small boy smiled as the woman produced the clover.

He laid it on his limp pillow and said,

when you find one with four leaves, I’ll be able to make a wish.

So, she closed her eyes as she reached out, choosing the next at random.

And the boy laid it with the others, his hollowed eyes watching them pile on the nightstand.

By mid-July the clover patch was nearly empty – plucked clean by a desperate mother.

That night, she crept slowly down the street and ignored that patch which had grown so thin.

She found herself standing in the doorway to a dark room – the boy’s room.

Her shoulders quivered as she sat on the edge of the twin-sized bed.

Tears began to darken the blue, spaceship-themed comforter.

And the bed that had been empty for so long felt the weight of a grieving mother.

In a dream, her son returned to her, his face bright and his blue eyes soft and shining.

He said nothing as he patted his mother’s sleeping head with a small, white hand.

That morning, she awoke with eyes still wet with tears.

She laid still for a few moments before sitting up against the wooden headboard.

When she turned her head towards the nightstand, she gasped.

Sitting on the smooth surface was a four-leaf clover.