While driving out to my parents' house this afternoon for a quick visit, I saw a truck carrying a load of hay approaching from the opposite direction. As we met and passed each other, I found myself murmuring a wish almost without thought.

Since my earliest memories, I've heeded the hay truck wishing rule laid out by my parents during roadtrips and jaunts around town.

"See a hay truck? Make a wish and don't look back."

The sudden urge to look back and mark the progress of the truck rises in the wake of the wish, and I have to force my eyes to remain focused on the road ahead.

Over the years, my wishes have changed. I remember wishing for a new bike, a slumber party invitation, attention from a certain boy in my class and a good grade on a test. I wished for the lead in a school play, and the miraculous recovery of one of my mother's friends who lay dying of breast cancer.

Wishes leaped from my heart to my lips as the flatbed truck would draw near, bits of straw flying in the turbulant air. Scrunching my eyes as I focused on the truck, I would whisper the wish and then stare at the back of the seat in front of me, lest I mistakenly catch a glimpse of the hay truck in one of the mirrors.

In my early twenties, my wishes became laundry lists - let me find a wonderful man to share my life with - as long as he's not controlling and likes to pay for things. Oh, and he should be cute and smart. But not too cute, because I don't like stuck-up guys.

Often, by the time I finished wishing, the truck would be miles away, and my thoughts would be far away too, lost in the drama that I artlessly spun around myself. In the qualifying rounds, the simple wish that burst out of my heart was weighed down and flopped about helplessly, shackled to the bumper of the speeding hay truck.

When I discovered I was pregnant with my oldest child, all the wishes were condensed into a wordless ache, a nameless fear, a longing so fierce it burned my throat when I tried to speak. Shortly after I married, I was driving alone, and passed a hay truck. My heart leaped into my throat and I mouthed 'happy and healthy' while willing my eyes to follow the white lane divider in front of me.

Since then, every truck has been met with the same words, no qualifications necessary. What I wish, of course, is that my children will be happy and healthy - my family and myself, as well. That our lives will be long and our joy plentiful. And that our road ahead is smooth.

As I passed the truck this afternoon, I felt the familiar lump in my throat as my lips moved silently, forming the words that encapsulate my greatest wish. As my eyes stayed stubbornly on the road, my mind raced ahead to the years yet to be enjoyed. The firsts and the lasts. The milestones celebrated. Happy and Healthy. Don't look back.